'9/6  — 


Prairie  Gold 


Rotating-  the  Crops  —  Corn  Isn't  Iowa's  Only  Product 


Prairie  Gold 


By 

Iowa  Authors  and  Artists 


Jacket  and  Frontispiece  by 
J.  N.  Darling 

Decorations  by 

Harriet  Macy 

and 
Louise  Orwig 


The   Reilly   &  Britton   Co, 

Chicago 


Copyright,  1917 

By 
The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co. 


Prairie  Gold 


To  those  whose  tender,  cooling  fingers  bind  up  the 
bleeding  wounds  of  men  who  go  forth  to  war: 

To  those  who  comfort  and  sustain  the  widows  and 
the  orphans : 

To  all  those  swiftly  flying  carriers  of  warmth 
and  love  and  cheer  who  constitute  the  workers  in 
that  greatest  of  all  humanitarian  organizations: 

The  American  Red  Cross 


M      <J'J3 


Preface 

This  volume,  from  the  land  of  the  singing  corn,  is 
offered  to  the  public  by  the  Iowa  Press  and  Authors' 
Club  as  the  first  bit  of  co-operative  work  done  by  Iowa 
writers.  The  anticipated  needs  of  the  brave  men  who 
have  given  themselves  as  a  human  sacrifice  to  the  estab 
lishment  of  a  world-wide  democracy,  make  a  strong 
heart  appeal,  and  the  members  have  come  together  in 
spirit  to  do  their  bit  toward  the  relief  of  suffering. 

Many  members  of  the  club  could  not  be  reached  dur 
ing  the  short  time  the  book  was  in  the  making;  others 
doing  work  every  day  on  schedule  time  had  no  oppor 
tunity  to  prepare  manuscript  for  this  publication,  while 
still  others  preferred  helping  in  ways  other  than  with 
their  pens. 

The  whole  is  a  work  of  love  and  representative  of 
the  comradeship,  the  spirit  of  human  sympathy,  and  the 
pride  of  state,  existent  in  the  hearts  of  Iowa  authors, 
artists,  playwrights,  poets,  editors  and  journalists. 

Officers  of  the  club  for  1917-18: 

Hamlin  Garland,  Honorary  President. 

Alice  C.  Weitz,  President. 

J.  Edward  Kirbye,  First  Vice  President. 

Nellie  Gregg  Tomlinson,  Second  Vice  President. 

Esse  V.  Hathaway,  Secretary. 

Reuben  F.  Place,  Treasurer. 

Editorial  Board: 

Johnson  Brigham. 

Lewis  Worthington  Smith. 

Helen  Cowles  LeCron. 


Index 

American  Wake,   An 217 

Rose  A.  Crow 
At  Kamakura:  1917 • 44 

Arthur  Davison  Ficke 
Ballad  of  the  Corn,  A 234 

5.  H.  M.  Byers 
Box  From  Home,  A 138 

Helen  Cowles  LeCron 
Bread    37 

Ellis  Parker  Butler 
But  Once  a  Year 51 

R.  O'Grady 
Call  of  the  Race,  The 260 

Elizabeth  Cooper 
Captured  Dream,   The 84 

Octave  Thanet 
Children's  Blessing,   The 236 

Virginia  Roderick 
Dog n6 

Edwin  L.  Sabin 
Field,  A   285 

Minnie  Stichter 
First  Laugh,  The 131 

Reuben  F.  Place 


Index 

Freighter's  Dream,  The 133 

Ida  M.  Huntington 
God's  Back  Yard 223 

Jessie  Welborn  Smith 
Graven  Image,   The 19 

Hamlin  Garland 
Happiest  Man  in  I-O-Way,  The 83 

Rupert  Hughes 
Iowa  as  a  Literary  Field 316 

Johnson  Brigham 
Kings  of  Saranazett,  The 177 

Lewis  Worthington  Smith 
Kitchener's  Mob    241 

James  Norman  Hall 
Load  of  Hay,  A 314 

James  B.  Weaver 
Masterpieces    36 

Ethel  Hueston 
My  Baby's  Horse • 259 

Emilie  Blackmore  Stapp 
"  Old  Bill  " 67 

Henry  C.  Wallace 
Old  Cane  Mill,  The 195 

Nellie  Gregg  Tomlinson 
One  Wreath  of  Rue 278 

Cynthia  West  over  Alden 
Our  Bird  Friends 302 

Margaret  Coulson  Walker 


Index 

Peace  and  Then  —  ? 292 

Detlev  Fredrik  Tillisch 
Poet  of  the  Future,  The 169 

Tacitus  Hussey 
Professor,   The    248 

Calista  Halsey  Patchin 
Putting  the  Stars  with  the  Bars 173 

Verne  Marshall 
Queer  Little  Thing,  The 199 

Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd 
Recruit's  Story,  The 77 

Frank  Luther  Mott 
Reminder,  The 63 

Allan  Updegraff 
Rochester,  Minn 221 

Marie  G.  Stapp 
Semper  Fidelis 300 

Addle  B.  Billington 
September 166 

Esse  V.  Hathaway 
Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 101 

Virginia  H.  Reichard 
Sonny's  Wish 114 

Bertha  M.  Shambaugh 
Spirit  of  Spring,  The 140 

Laura  L.  Hinkley 
That  Iowa  Town 45 

Oney  Fred  Sweet 


Index 

Tinkling  Cymbals    126 

Helen  Sherman  Griffith 
Truth    97 

Carrie  Moss  Hawley 
Unredeemed,  The    121 

Emerson  Hough 
Wild  Crab  Apple,  The 231 

Julia  Ellen  Rogers 
Wind  in  the  Corn,  The 17 

Alice  C.  Weitz 

Woodrow    Wilson    and    Wells,    War's     Great 
Authors     280 

Honore  Willsie 
Work    100 

Irving  N.  Brant 
Work  Is  a  Blessing 161 

Lafayette  Young 
Your  Lad,  and  My  Lad 290 

Randall  Parrish 


List  of  Authors 

Alden,  Cynthia  Westover 278 

Billington,  Addie  B 300 

Brainerd,  Eleanor  Hoyt 199 

Brant,   Irving  N 100 

Brigham,  Johnson   316 

Butler,  Ellis  Parker 37 

Byers,  S.  H.  M 234 

Cooper,   Elizabeth    260 

Crow,  Rose  A 217 

Ficke,  Arthur  Davison 44 

Garland,  Hamlin   19 

Griffith,  Helen  Sherman 126 

Hall,  James  Norman 241 

Hathaway,  Esse  V 166 

Hawley,  Carrie  Moss 97 

Hinkley,  Laura  L 140 

Hough,  Emerson 121 

Hueston,  Ethel 36 

Hughes,  Rupert 83 

Huntington,  Ida  M 133 

Hussey,  Tacitus 169 

LeCron,  Helen  Cowles 138 

Marshall,  Verne 173 


List  of  Authors 

Mott,  Frank  Luther 77 

O'Grady,  R 51 

Parrish,  Randall 290 

Patchin,  Calista  Halsey 248 

Place,  Reuben  F 131 

Reichard,  Virginia  H 101 

Roderick,  Virginia 236 

Rogers,  Julia  Ellen 231 

Sabin,  Edwin  L 116 

Shambaugh,  Bertha  M.  H 114 

Smith,   Jessie   Wellborn 223 

Smith,  Lewis  Worthington 177 

Stapp,  Emilie  Blackmore 259 

Stapp,  Marie  G 221 

Stichter,  Minnie 285 

Sweet,  Oney  Fred 45 

Thanet,  Octave    84 

Tillisch,  Detlev  Fredrik 292 

Tomlinson,  Nellie  Gregg 195 

UpdegrafT,  Allan 63 

Walker,  Margaret  Coulson 302 

Wallace,  Henry  C 67 

Weaver,  James  B 314 

Weitz,  Alice  C 17 

Willsie,  Honore 280 

Young,  Lafayette    161 


List  of  Illustrations 

Rotating  the  Crops  ...............  .  .  .  .Frontispiece 

J.  N.  Darling 


Frank  Wing 

Host  and  Houseguest  ........  ......  .....  Page  169 

Orson  Lowell 

The  Wind  in  the  Corn  ............  .  .....  Page  259 

C.  L.  Bartholomew 


reed  of 


owa 


I  BELIEVE  in  Iowa,  land  of  limitless  prairies, 
II  with  rolling  hills  and  fertile  valleys,  with  wind- 
=='  ing  and  widening  streams,  with  bounteous  crops 
and  fruit-laden  trees,  yielding  to  man  their  wealth  and 
health. 

I  believe  in  Iowa,  land  of  golden  grains,  whose  har 
vests  fill  the  granaries  of  the  nation,  making  it  opulent 
with  the  power  of  earth's  fruitfulness. 

I  believe  in  Iowa,  rich  in  her  men  and  women  of 
power  and  might.  I  believe  in  her  authors  and  edu 
cators,  her  statesmen  and  ministers,  whose  intellectual 
and  moral  contribution  is  one  of  the  mainstays  of  the 
republic  —  true  in  the  hour  of  danger  and  steadfast 
in  the  hour  of  triumph. 

I  believe  in  Iowa,  magnet  and  meeting  place  of  all 
nations,  fused  into  a  noble  unity,  Americans  all, 
blended  into  a  free  people.  I  believe  in  her  stalwart 
sons,  her  winsome  women,  in  her  colleges  and  churches, 
in  her  institutions  of  philanthropy  and  mercy,  in  her 
press,  the  voice  and  instructor  of  her  common  mind 


The  Creed  of  Iowa 

and  will,  in  her  leadership  and  destiny,  in  the  mag 
nificence  of  her  opportunity  and  in  the  fine  responsive 
ness  of  her  citizens  to  the  call  of  every  higher  obli 
gation. 

I  believe  in  our  commonwealth,  yet  young,  and  in 
the  process  of  making,  palpitant  with  energy  and 
faring  forth  with  high  hope  and  swift  step;  and  I 
covenant  with  the  God  of  my  fathers  to  give  myself 
in  service,  mind  and  money,  hand  and  heart,  to  explore 
and  develop  her  physical,  intellectual  and  moral  re 
sources,  to  sing  her  praises  truthfully,  to  keep  her  pol 
itics  pure,  her  ideals  high,  and  to  make  better  and 
better  her  schools  and  churches,  her  lands  and  homes, 
and  to  make  her  in  fact  what  she  is  by  divine  right, 
the  queen  of  all  the  commonwealths. 

— J.  Edward  Kirbye. 


The  Wind  in  the  Corn 

By  Alice  C.  Weitz 

jHERE  stands  recorded  in  the 
Book  of  Time  a  fascinating 
'legend  of  the  Sun,  whose 
golden  throne  allured  but  for  the 
day;  and  when  the  day  was  ended 
in  great  glee  he  hurried  forth  be 
yond  the  broad  horizon  toward  a 
secret  trysting  place.  All  his  im 
passioned  love,  it  is  said,  he  poured 
upon  the  idol  of  his  heart,  the 
boundless  plains.  Long  years  were 
they  alone,  the  Rolling  Prairie  and  the  Golden  Sun, 
until  at  last  they  found  themselves  spied  upon  by 
curious  Man,  who,  captivated  by  the  beauty  of  the 
two,  remained  and  blessed  the  tryst  thereby. 

Here  Sun  and  Soil  and  Man  wrought  out  a  work 
of  art;  and  here  Dame  Nature  smiled  as  was  her 
wont,  and  brought  rich  gifts  and  blessings  manifold. 
In  sweet  content  Man's  children  toiled  and  wrought 
until  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sunlit  plains  there  nestled 
close  great  fields  and  prosperous  abodes. 

19 


20  The  Wind  in  the  Corn 

And  since  that  time  a  ceaseless  music  steals 
throughout  the  land  in  wooing  cadences,  now  crying 
out  in  weird  and  wandering  tones,  now  softly  sooth 
ing  in  sweet  rhythmic  chant. 

'Tis  the  music  of  the  wind  within  the  corn  — 
Iowa's  Prairie  Gold. 

It  sang  itself  into  the  lonely  heart  of  the  pioneer 
with  its  promise  of  golden  harvest;  it  became  the 
cradle  song  of  restless  souls  that  even  in  their  youth 
longed  but  to  free  themselves  in  verse  and  song; 
and  down  through  all  the  prosperous  years  it  steals 
like  a  sweet  sustaining  accompaniment  to  the  count 
less  activities  which  have  builded  a  great  common 
wealth. 

He  who  has  stood  upon  the  hilltops  in  his  youth 
ful  days  and  listened  to  the  soft,  alluring  rustle  of 
the  wind-swayed  leaves  retains  the  music  ever  in  his 
soul.  It  draws  upon  the  heart-strings  of  the  absent 
one,  and  like  the  constant  singing  of  the  sea  insistent 
calls  upon  him  to  return. 

Today  in  spirit  come  we  all  to  Time's  sweet  trysting 
place  with  story  song  and  jest,  to  add  sweet  comfort 
to  the  braver  ones  whose  paths  lie  wide  before  them, 
and  whose  return  lies  not  within  our  willing.  God 
grant  that  even  in  their  pains  their  troubled  souls 
may  yet  to  music  be  attuned,  may  know  again  the 
solace  of  that  sweetly  floating  song,  the  rustle  of 
the  wind  within  the  corn. 


The  Graven  Image 

By  Hamlin  Garland 

Roger  Barnes,  son  of  an  elder  in  the  little  Iowa 
Society  of  Friends  and  himself  "  a  man  of  weight," 
found  his  faith  sorely  tried  by  the  death  of  his  young 
wife,  and  as  the  weeks  passed  without  a  perceptible 
lightening  of  his  face,  the  Meeting  came  at  last  to 
consider  his  deep  grief  unseemly  and  rebellious.  He 
remained  deaf  to  all  words  of  comfort  and  occupied 
his  Sabbath  seat  in  moody  silence,  his  heart  closed  to 
the  Spirit,  his  thought  bitter  toward  life  and  forgetful 
of  God's  grace. 

The  admonition  of  the  elders  at  last  roused  him  to 
defense.  "Why  should  I  not  ache?"  he  demanded. 
"  I  have  been  smitten  of  the  rod."  And  when  old 
Nicholas  Asche  again  reproved  him  before  the  assem 
bly,  he  arose,  went  out,  refusing  to  return,  and 
several  of  his  friends  were  greatly  troubled,  for  it 
was  known  that  for  a  long  time  he  had  been  increas 
ingly  impatient  of  the  "  Discipline  "  and  on  terms  of 
undue  intimacy  with  Orrin  Bailey,  one  of  "  the 
world's  people." 

As  the  spring  came  on  his  passionate  grief  calmed, 

21 


22  The  Graven  Image 

but  a  new  consideration  came,  one  which  troubled  him 
more  and  more,  until  at  last  he  opened  his  heart  to 
his  friend. 

"  Thee  knew  my  wife,  friend  Bailey.  Thee  knew 
her  loveliness?  Well,  now  she  is  gone,  and  does  thee 
know  I  am  utterly  disconsolate,  for  I  have  no  portrait 
of  her.  No  image,  no  shadow  of  her,  exists  and  I 
fear  I  shall  lose  the  memory  of  her  sweet  face. 
Already  it  is  growing  dim  in  my  mind.  What  can 
I  do?" 

This  was  in  the  days  when  even  daguerreotypes 
were  rare,  and  Bailey,  who  had  never  seen  a  painted 
portrait  and  could  not  conceive  of  an  artist  skillful 
enough  to  depict  an  object  he  had  never  known,  was 
not  able  to  advise,  and  the  grieving  man's  fear 
remained  unassuaged  till,  some  months  later,  on  a  trip 
to  Decorah,  he  came  by  accident  past  the  gate  of  a 
newly  established  stone-cutter's  yard,  and  there,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  saw  human  figures  cut 
enduringly  in  marble.  Cunning  cherubs  and  angels 
with  calm  faces  and  graceful,  half-furled  wings  sur 
rounded  granite  soldiers  standing  stiff  and  straight. 

Roger  was  amazed.  The  sculptor's  magic  was  an 
astonishment  to  him.  He  had  never  seen  the  like, 
and  as  he  looked  upon  these  figures  there  came  into 
his  sad  eyes  the  light  of  a  startling  purpose. 

"  I  will  have  this  workman  cut  for  me  an  image 
of  my  dear  Rachel,"  he  resolved  and,  following  this 


Hamlin  Garland  23 

impulse,  approached  the  stone-cutter.  "  Friend,"  he 
said  abruptly,  "  I  would  have  thee  chisel  for  me  the 
form  of  my  dead  wife." 

Although  an  aspiring  and  self-confident  artist,  Con 
rad  Heffnew  was,  nevertheless,  a  little  shaken  as  he 
drew  from  his  visitor  the  conditions  of  this  commis 
sion.  "  The  lack  of  even  a  small  drawing  or  portrait 
of  the  subject  is  discouraging,"  he  said.  "  If  she  had 
a  sister,  now,"  he  added  slowly,  "  someone  about  her 
build,  to  wear  her  clothes,  I  might  be  able  to  do  the 
figure." 

"  She  has  a  sister,  Ruth,"  Roger  eagerly  answered. 
"  She  is  slimmer  than  Rachel  was,  but  her  cast  of 
features  is  much  the  same.  I  am  sure  she  will  help 
thee,  for  she  loved  Rachel.  I  will  bring  her  down  to 
see  thee." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Conrad.  "If  she  will  sit  for 
me  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

Resting  upon  this  arrangement  Roger  drove  away 
to  his  prairie  home  lighter  of  heart  than  he  had  been 
for  many  weeks.  '''  Truly  an  artist  is  of  use  in  the 
world  after  all  —  one  to  be  honored,"  he  thought. 

To  Ruth  he  told  the  story  and  expressed  his  wish, 
but  enjoined  secrecy.  "  Thee  knows  how  some  of 
our  elders  would  pother  about  this,"  he  added.  "  Let 
us  conspire  together,  therefore,  so  that  thee  may  make 
the  trip  to  the  city  without  exciting  undue  comment." 

Ruth  was  quite  willing  to  adventure,  for  the  town 


24  The  Graven  Image 

far  down  on  the  shining  river  was  a  lure  to  her;  but 
the  road  was  long  and  after  a  great  deal  of  thought 
Roger  decided  to  ask  the  young  stone-cutter  to  come 
first  to  Hesper,  which  he  could  do  without  arousing 
suspicion.  "  We  will  contrive  to  see  him  afterward 
in  his  shop  if  necessary,"  he  ended  decisively,  for  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  lead  Ruth  into  the  society 
of  the  world's  people  to  serve  as  a  model,  an  act 
which  might  be  mistaken  as  a  wrong-doing. 

The  sculptor,  anticipating  a  goodly  fee  (as  well  as 
an  increase  in  orders  for  grave-stones),  readily 
enough  consented  to  visit  Hesper,  but  only  to  study 
his  problem.  He  immediately  insisted  on  Ruth's 
coming  to  his  studio.  "  I  can't  do  all  the  work 
here  —  I  want  to  make  this  my  best  piece,"  he  re 
marked  in  explanation.  "  It  is  hard  to  remember  the 
details  of  face  and  form.  It  may  require  several 
sittings." 

Thereafter,  as  often  as  he  dared,  Roger  called  at 
his  father-in-law's  house  for  Ruth  and  drove  her 
down  to  the  sculptor's  shop,  and  although  there  were 
many  smiling  comments  on  these  trips,  no  one  knew 
their  real  purpose. 

Slowly  the  figure  grew  from  a  harsh  marble  block 
into  an  ever  more  appealing  female  figure,  and  Roger 
loved  to  stand  beside  the  artist  while  he  chipped  the 
stone,  for  Conrad  was  in  very  truth  a  sculptor,  a 
stalwart  fist  at  the  chisel,  not  a  weak  modeller  in  clay. 


Hamlin  Garland  25 

He  often  hummed  a  tune  as  he  swung  his  mall;  and 
so,  to  the  lively  beat  of  worldly  melodies,  the  fair 
form  of  the  Quaker  maid  emerged  from  its  flinty 
covering. 

One  day  in  early  autumn,  conditions  favoring,  Ruth 
went  to  town  with  Roger  for  the  fifth  time  and 
ventured  timidly  into  the  stone-cutter's  yard  to  gaze 
with  awe  upon  the  nearly-finished  snow-white  image, 
and  to  the  artist's  skill  gave  breathless  words  of 
praise.  "  Truly  thee  is  a  magician,"  she  said. 
"  Thee  has  made  a  beautiful  bonnet  out  of  marble  and 
likewise  slippers,"  she  added,  looking  down  to  where 
one  small  foot  in  its  square-toed  shoe  peeped  from  the 
plain  skirt.  "  Thee  does  right  to  make  it  lovely,  for 
my  sister  was  most  comely,"  she  ended  with  a  touch 
of  pride, 

"  My  model  was  also  comely,"  replied  Conrad  with 
a  glance  which  made  her  flush  with  pleasure. 

During  all  these  months  Roger  had  maintained  such 
careful  logic  in  his  comings  and  goings  that  only 
Bailey  and  one  or  two  of  his  most  intimate  friends 
had  even  a  suspicion  of  what  was  happening,  though 
many  predicted  that  he  and  Ruth  would  wed;  for  it 
was  known  that  she  had  taken  his  little  son  to  her 
father's  house  and  was  caring  for  him.  Nevertheless 
Roger  well  knew  that  a  struggle  was  preparing  for 
him,  and  that  some  of  the  elders  would  be  shocked 
by  the  audacity  of  his  plan,  but  no  fear  of  man  or 


26  The  Graven  Image 

church  could  avail  against  the  force  of  his  resolution. 

On  this  final  visit,  even  as  they  both  stood  beside 
him,  Conrad  threw  down  his  mallet  saying :  "  I  can 
do  no  more.  It  is  finished,"  and  turning  to  Ruth, 
"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  he  demanded. 

She,  gazing  upon  the  finished  statue  and  seeing 
only  her  sister  in  it,  said :  "  I  think  it  beautiful." 

And  Roger,  deeply  wrapt  in  worship  of  the  sculp- 
tored  face,  said :  "  Thee  has  done  wonders.  The 
sweet  smile  of  my  beloved  is  fixed  in  marble  forever, 
and  my  heart  is  filled  with  gratitude  to  thee."  All 
his  training  was  against  the  graven  art,  but  he  gave 
his  hand  to  the  sculptor.  "  Friend  Conrad,  I  thank 
thee;  thee  has  made  me  very  happy.  Truly  thee  has 
caused  this  cold  marble  to  assume  the  very  image  of 
my  Rachel." 

As  Roger  turned  again  to  gaze  upon  the  statue 
Conrad  touched  Ruth  upon  the  arm  and  drew  her 
aside,  leaving  the  bereaved  man  alone  with  his 
memories. 

It  was  all  so  wonderful,  so  moving  to  Roger  that  he 
remained  before  it  a  long  time,  absorbed,  marveling, 
exultant.  Safe  against  the  years  he  seemed  now,  and 
yet,  as  he  gazed,  his  pleasure  grew  into  a  pain,  so 
vividly  did  the  chiseled  stone  bring  back  the  grace  he 
had  known.  Close  upon  the  exultant  thought: 
"  Now  she  can  never  fade  from  my  memory,"  came 
the  reflection  that  his  little  son  would  never  know 


Hamlin  Garland  27 

how  like  to  his  mother  this  image  was.  "  He  will 
know  only  the  cold  marble  —  his  mother  will  not  even 
be  a  memory." 

One  sixth  day  morning  in  the  eighth  month  word 
was  brought  to  Nicholas  Asche,  leader  of  the  Meeting, 
that  Roger  Barnes  was  about  to  erect  a  graven  image 
among  the  low  headstones  of  the  burial  grounds,  and 
in  amazement  and  indignation  the  old  man  hastened 
that  way. 

He  found  his  two  sons  and  several  others  of  the 
congregation  already  gathered,  gazing  with  surprise 
and  a  touch  of  awe  upon  the  statue  which  Conrad 
and  young  Bailey  had  already  securely  based  beneath 
a  graceful  young  oak  in  the  very  centre  of  his  family 
plot.  Gleaming,  life-size,  it  rose  above  the  modest 
records  of  the  other  graves. 

As  the  stern  old  elder  rode  up,  the  throng  of  on 
lookers  meekly  gave  way  for  him.  He  halted  only 
when  he  had  come  so  near  the  offending  monument 
that  he  could  touch  it.  For  a  full  minute  he  regarded 
it  with  eyes  whose  anger  lit  the  shadow  of  his  broad 
brim,  glaring  with  ever-increasing  resentment  as  he 
came  fully  to  realize  what  it  meant  to  have  a  tall 
statue  thus  set  up  to  dwarf  the  lowly  records  of  its 
neighbors.  It  seemed  at  once  impious  and  rebellious. 

Harshly  he  broke  forth :  "  What  has  come  to  thee, 
Roger  Barnes,  that  thee  has  broken  all  the  rules  of 
the  Discipline  relative  to  burial?  Thee  well  knows 


28  The  Graven  Image 

our  laws.  No  one  could  convey  a  greater  insult  to 
the  elders,  to  the  dead  beneath  these  other  stones, 
than  thee  has  done  by  this  act.  Lay  that  impious 
object  low  or  I  will  fetch  thee  before  the  Meeting." 

"  I  will  not,"  replied  the  young  man.  "  I  was  even 
thinking  of  exalting  it  still  more  by  putting  beneath  it 
another  foot  of  granite  block." 

"  Thee  knows  full  well  that  by  regulation  no  grave 
stone  can  be  more  than  three  hands  high,"  Nicholas 
stormed. 

"  I  know  that  well,  but  this  is  not  a  gravestone," 
Roger  retorted.  "  It  is  a  work  of  art.  It  is  at  once 
a  portrait  and  a  thing  of  beauty." 

"  That  is  but  paltering.  Thee  knows  well  it  is  at 
once  a  forbidden  thing  and  a  monument  beyond  the 
regulation  in  height,  and  therefore  doubly  offensive 
to  the  Meeting.  We  will  not  tolerate  such  folly.  I 
say  to  thee  again,  take  the  unholy  thing  down.  Will 
thee  urge  disrespect  to  the  whole  Society?  Thee 
knows  it  is  in  opposition  to  all  our  teaching.  What 
devil's  spirit  has  seized  upon  thee?" 

"  Thee  may  storm,"  stoutly  answered  Roger,  "  but 
I  am  not  to  be  frightened.  This  plot  of  ground  is 
mine.  This  figure  is  also  mine.  It  is  a  blessed  com 
fort,  a  sign  of  love  and  not  a  thing  of  evil  —  and  I 
will  not  take  it  away  from  here  for  thee  nor  for  all 
the  elders." 

Nicholas,    perceiving   that   Roger   was   not   to   be 


Hamlin  Garland  29 

coerced   at   the   moment,    ceased   argument,    but   his 
wrath  did  not  cool. 

"  Thee  shall  come  before  the  Meeting  forthwith." 

The  following  day  a  summons  was  issued  calling 
a  council,  and  a  messenger  came  to  Roger  calling  him 
before  his  elders  in  judgment. 

Thereupon  a  sharp  division  was  set  up  among  the 
neighbors  and  the  discussion  spread  among  the 
Friends.  The  question  of  "  Free  Will  in  Burial 
Stones  "  was  hotly  debated  wherever  two  or  three  of 
the  members  met,  so  that  the  mind  of  each  was  firmly 
made  up  by  the  time  the  Meeting  came  together  to  try 
the  question  publicly.  "  I  see  no  wrong  in  it,"  said 
some.  "  It  is  disgraceful,"  others  heatedly  charged. 

Roger's  act  was  denounced  by  his  own  family  as 
treason  to  the  Meeting,  as  well  as  heretical  to  the 
faith,  and  his  father,  old  Nathan  Barnes,  rising  with 
solemn  and  mournful  dignity,  admitted  this. 

"  I  know  not  what  I  have  done  that  a  son  of  mine 
should  bring  such  shame  and  sorrow  to  my  old  age. 
It  is  the  influence  of  the  world's  people  whose 
licentious  teachings  corrupt  even  the  most  steadfast  of 
our  youth.  We  came  here  —  to  this  lonely  place  —  to 
get  away  from  the  world's  people.  They  thicken 
about  us  now,  these  worldlings ;  hence  I  favor  another 
journey  into  a  far  wilderness  where  we  can  live  at 
peace,  shut  away  from  the  contamination  of  these 
greedy  and  blasphemous  idolaters." 


30  The  Graven  Image 

All  realized  that  he  spoke  in  anger  as  well  as  in 
sorrow,  and  the  more  candid  and  cool-headed  of  the 
Friends  deplored  his  words,  for  they  had  long  since 
determined  that  the  world's  forces  must  be  met  and 
endured;  but  Jacob  Farnum  was  quick  to  declare 
himself. 

"  The  welfare  of  our  Society  demands  the  punish* 
ment  of  Roger  Barnes.  I  move  that  a  committee  be 
appointed  to  proceed  to  the  burial  ground  and  throw 
down  and  break  in  pieces  this  graven  image." 

Here  something  unexpectedly  hot  and  fierce  filled 
Roger's  heart  to  the  exclusion  of  his  peaceful  teach 
ing  and  his  lifelong  awe  of  his  elders.  Rising  to  his 
feet  he  violently  exclaimed :  "  By  what  right  will 
thee  so  act?  Is  it  more  wicked  to  have  a  marble 
portrait  than  an  ambrotype  ?  It  is  true  that  I  learned 
the  secrets  of  sculpture  from  one  of  the  world's 
people;  it  is  true  that  an  outsider  has  cut  the  stone, 
but  I  believe  his  trade  to  be  worthy  and  his  work 
justifiable.  I  believe  in  such  portraits."  He  ad 
dressed  himself  to  Nicholas  Asche :  "  Had  thee  per 
mitted  Rachel  to  have  had  a  daguerreotype,  it  would 
not  have  been  necessary  for  me  to  treat  with  this 
carver  of  stone,  who  is,  notwithstanding,  a  man  of 
probity.  I  will  not  have  him  traduced  by  anyone 
present,"  he  ended  with  a  threat  in  his  eyes ;  "  he  is 
my  friend." 

Thereupon     Nicholas     Asche     curtly     answered: 


Hamlin  Garland  31 

"  There  also  thee  is  gravely  at  fault.  Thee  has 
brought  my  daughter  Ruth  under  the  baleful  influence 
of  this  worldling;  and  she  is  even  now  filled  with 
admiration  for  him.  She  too  needs  be  admonished 
of  the  elders  for  too  much  thinking  upon  light  affairs. 
Thee  is  a  traitor  to  thy  sister-in-law,  Roger  Barnes, 
as  thee  is  a  traitor  to  the  Meeting.  To  permit  thee 
to  go  thy  present  ways  would  be  to  open  our  gates  to 
vanity  and  envy  and  all  imaginable  folly.  If  thee 
does  not  at  once  remove  this  graven  image  from  our 
burial  grounds,  we  will  ourselves  proceed  against  it 
and  break  it  and  throw  it  into  the  highway." 

Then  again  young  Roger  rose  in  his  seat  and  with 
his  strong  hands  doubled  into  weapons  cried  out : 
"  Thee  will  do  well  to  take  this  matter  guardedly 
and  my  words  to  heart,  for  I  tell  thee  that  whosoever 
goes  near  to  lay  rude  hands  on  that  fair  form  will 
himself  be  thrown  down.  I  will  break  him  like  a 
staff  across  my  knee." 

He  stood  thus  for  a  moment  like  a  proud  young 
athlete,  meeting  the  eye  of  his  opponent,  then,  as  no 
one  spoke,  turned  and  strode  out,  resolute  to  be  first 
on  the  ground,  ready  to  defend  with  his  whole 
strength  the  marble  embodiment  of  his  vanished 
wife. 

And  yet,  even  as  he  walked  away  from  the  church, 
hot  and  blinded  with  anger,  he  began  to  ache  with  an 
indefinable,  increasing  sorrow.  He  had  expected 


32  The  Graven  Image 

opposition,  but  not  such  fury  as  this.  He  had  noted 
the  downcast  eyes  of  his  friends.  It  seemed  as  if 
something  very  precious  had  gone  out  of  his  life  —  as 
though  the  whole  world  had  suddenly  become 
inimical. 

"  They  were  ashamed  of  me,"  he  said  and  his  heart 
sank,  for  notwithstanding  his  resentment  he  loved  the 
Meeting  and  its  ways.  For  the  most  part  the  faces 
of  the  congregation  were  dear  to  him  and  the  pain 
that  sprang  from  a  knowledge  that  he  had  cut  him 
self  off  from  those  he  respected  soon  softened  his 
indignation.  Nevertheless  he  hurried  on  to  the  bury 
ing  ground. 

It  was  a  glorious  September  day  and  all  through 
the  fields  the  crickets  were  softly  singing  as  if  in 
celebration  of  the  gathered  ample  harvest.  They 
spoke  from  the  green  grass  above  the  graves  with  the 
same  insistent  cheer  as  from  the  sere  stubble,  but 
Roger  heard  them  not,  for  his  ears  still  rang  with  the 
elder's  stern  voice  and  his  eyes  were  darkened  by  the 
lowering  brows  of  his  father's  moody  face.  Only 
when  the  statue  rose  before  him  white  and  still  and 
fair  in  the  misty  sunlight  did  his  mood  lighten. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is,"  he  exclaimed.  "  How  can 
they  desire  to  destroy  it  ?  " 

Nevertheless  he  was  smitten  with  a  kind  of  dismay 
as  he  looked  around  upon  the  low,  drab  headstones 
and  perceived  with  what  singular  significance  the 


Hamlin  Garland  33 

marble  rose  above  them.  "  In  truth  I  have  dared 
much  in  doing  this  thing."  It  was  as  if  he  had  been 
led  by  some  inner  spirit  braver  than  himself. 

And  then  —  even  as  he  raised  a  first  glance  to  the 
statue —  a  pang  of  keen  surprise  shot  through  his 
heart.  The  face  was  changed.  Something  new  had 
come  into  it.  It  was  not  his  Rachel!  With  hand 
pressed  upon  his  chilling  heart  he  studied  it  with  new 
understanding.  He  had  known  that  it  somewhat 
resembled  Ruth,  for  Ruth  indeed  resembled  Rachel  — • 
but  that  it  was  verily  in  every  line  and  shadow  a  por 
trait  of  the  living  and  not  of  the  dead  he  now  realized 
for  the  first  time. 

"  The  sculptor  has  deceived  me !  "  he  cried.  "  He 
loves  Ruth  and  with  the  craft  of  a  lover  has  wrought 
out  his  design  deliberately  and  with  cunning.  He 
has  carved  the  cold  stone  to  the  form  of  his  own 
desire.  How  blind  I  have  been." 

In  complete  comprehension  he  addressed  the  statue : 
"  Thee  is  but  a  symbol  of  this  artist's  love  for  another 
after  all.  Nicholas  Asche  was  right.  This  sculptor 
under  cover  of  my  love  —  in  pretending  to  work  out 
my  ideal  —  has  betrayed  me  and  bewitched  Ruth." 

Ruth,  his  constant  sunny  companion,  the  keeper, 
the  almost  second  mother  of  his  child,  had  been 
snared  by  the  fowler !  He  no  longer  doubted  it.  He 
recalled  the  gladness  with  which  she  always  accom 
panied  him  to  the  sculptor's  studio  and  her  silence 


34  The  Graven  Image 

and  preoccupation  on  the  homeward  drive.  She  loved 
the  artist.  She  was  about  to  be  taken  away. 

Something  fierce  and  wild  clutched  at  his  throat 
and  with  a  groan  he  fell  upon  the  ground  beneath  the 
figure :  "  Oh,  Ruth,  Ruth !  Am  I  to  lose  thee  too  ?  " 

At  this  moment  he  forgot  all  else  but  the  sweet  girl 
who  had  become  so  necessary  to  his  life.  Truly,  to 
lose  all  hope  of  her  was  to  be  doubly  bereaved.  "  I 
am  now  most  surely  solitary,"  he  mourned.  "  What 
will  become  of  me  hereafter?  Who  will  care  for  my 
little  son?" 

While  still  he  lay  there,  dark  with  despair  and  lax 
with  weakness,  Ruth  and  the  sculptor  came  up  the 
walk  to  the  gate  and  saw  his  prostrate  form.  Ruth 
checked  the  sculptor's  advance.  "  Let  me  go  up  to 
him  alone,"  she  said,  and  approached  where  Roger 
lay.  She  did  not  know  the  true  cause  of  his  grief, 
but  she  pitied  him :  "  Do  not  grieve,  Roger ;  they 
will  not  dare  to  touch  the  figure." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  glance  which  was  at 
once  old  and  strange,  but  uttered  no  word  of  reply, 
only  steadfastly  regarded  her;  then  his  head  dropped 
upon  his  arm  and  his  body  shook  only  with  sobbing. 

She  spoke  again :  "  Thee  must  not  despair.  There 
are  quite  as  many  for  thee  as  there  are  against  thee. 
All  the  young  people  are  on  thy  side.  No  one  will 
dare  to  harm  the  statue." 

As  they  stood  thus  Conrad  approached  and  said: 


Hamlin  Garland  35 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  Come  out  from  among  these 
narrow  folk.  Ruth  is  to  come  out  and  be  my  wife. 
Why  do  you  stay  to  be  worried  by  the  elders  who  —  " 

He  spoke  no  further,  for  Roger  waved  his  hand  in 
dismissal  of  them  and  cried  out  in  most  lamentable 
voice :  "  Leave  me.  Leave  me,"  and  again  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

In  troubled  wonder  the  young  people  moved  away 
slowly,  Ruth  with  tear-filled  eyes,  Conrad  very  grave. 
Together  they  took  their  stand  at  the  gate  to  guard 
against  the  approach  of  others  less  sympathetic.  "  His 
grief  is  profound,"  said  Ruth,  "  but  the  statue  will 
comfort  him." 

Roger,  overwhelmed  now  by  another  emotion  —  a 
sense  of  shame,  of  deep  contrition  —  was  face  to  face 
with  a  clear  conception  of  his  disloyalty  to  the  dead. 
Aye,  the  statue  was  Ruth.  Its  youth,  its  tender, 
timid  smile,  its  arch  brow,  all  were  hers,  and  as  he 
remembered  how  Conrad  had  taken  the  small  unre 
sisting  hand  in  his,  he  knew  himself  to  be  baser  than 
Nicholas  Asche  had  dared  imagine.  "  I  loved  thee," 
he  confessed ;  "  not  as  I  loved  Rachel  —  but  in  a  most 
human  way.  My  life  has  closed  round  thee.  I  have 
unconsciously  thought  of  thee  as  the  guardian  of  my 
child.  Thy  shining  figure  I  have  placed  in  the  glow 
of  my  fire." 

This  was  true.  Ruth  had  not  displaced  the  love  he 
still  bore  for  his  sweet  wife  —  but  she  had  made  it 


36  The  Graven  Image 

an  echo  of  passion,  a  dim  song,  a  tender  and  haunt 
ing  memory  of  his  youth. 

The  sun  sank  and  dusk  came  on  while  still  he  lay 
at  the  statue's  feet  in  remorseful  agony  of  soul,  and 
those  who  came  near  enough  to  speak  with  him  re 
spected  his  wish  and  left  him  undisturbed. 

Softly  the  darkness  rose  and  a  warm  and  mellow 
night  covered  the  mourner,  clothing  the  marble  maid 
with  mystery. 

The  crickets  singing  innumerably  all  about  him 
came  at  last  to  express  in  some  subtle  way  the  futility 
of  his  own  purpose,  the  smallness  of  his  own  affairs, 
and  as  he  listened  he  lost  the  sharpness  of  his  grief. 
His  despair  lightened.  He  ceased  to  accuse;  his 
desire  of  battle  died.  "  How  could  Conrad  know 
that  I  had  grown  disloyal?  And  how  was  Ruth  to 
perceive  my  change  of  heart?  The  treachery  is  mine, 
all  mine,  dear  angel,  but  I  will  atone.  I  will  atone. 
Forgive  me.  Come  to  me  and  forgive  me !  Comfort 


me." 


Within  his  heart  the  spirit  of  resentment  gave  way 
to  one  of  humbleness,  of  submission.  The  contest  for 
a  place  among  these  gray  old  monuments  no  longer 
seemed  worthy  —  or  rather  he  felt  himself  no  longer 
worthy  to  wage  it.  His  disloyalty  to  his  dead  dis 
qualified  him  as  a  base  act  disqualified  the  knights  of 
old.  "  My  cause  is  lost  because  my  heart  was 
false !  "  he  said. 


Hamlin  Garland  37 

So  during  the  long  hours  of  the  night  he  kept 
remorseful  vigil.  The  moon  set,  the  darkness  deep 
ened,  cool,  odorous,  musical  with  lulling  songs  of 
insects ;  and  still  he  lingered,  imploring  solace,  seeking 
relief  from  self-reproach.  At  last,  just  before  dawn, 
the  spirit  of  his  dead  Rachel  stepped  from  the 
shadow.  She  approached  him  and  bending  above 
him  softly  said: 

"  Dear  heart,  it  is  true  I  am  not  within  the  graven 
image.  You  have  no  need  of  it.  Go  home.  There 
I  am,  always  near  thee  and  the  child.  I  am  not  for 
others;  I  am  thine.  Return.  Make  thy  peace  with 
the  elders.  Thee  must  not  live  solitary  and  sad.  Our 
son  waits  for  thee,  and  when  thee  sits  beside  his  bed, 
I  will  be  there." 

He  woke  chilled  and  wet  with  the  midnight  damp, 
but  in  his  heart  a  new-found  sense  of  peace  had  come. 
His  interest  in  the  statue  was  at  an  end.  He  now 
knew  that  it  was  neither  the  monument  he  had  desired 
nor  the  image  of  his  love.  "  How  gross  I  have 
been,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  unseen  pres 
ence,  "  to  think  that  the  beauty  of  my  dead  could  be 
embodied  in  stone !  Ruth  shall  go  her  ways  to  happi 
ness  with  my  blessing." 

In  this  mood  he  rose  and  went  to  his  home,  deeply 
resolved  to  put  aside  his  idolatry  of  Ruth  even  as 
he  had  put  behind  him  the  gleaming,  beautiful  figure 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  oak. 


Masterpieces 

By  Ethel  Hueston 

Give  me  my  pen, 

For  I  would  write  fine  thoughts,  pure  thoughts, 
To  touch  men's  hearts  with  tenderness, 
To  fire  with  zeal  for  service  grim, 
To  cheer  with  mirth  when  skies  are  dull; 

Give  me  my  pen, 
For  I  would  write  a  masterpiece. 

Yet  stay  a  while, 
For  I  must  put  away  these  toys, 
And  wash  this  chubby,  grimy  face, 
And  kiss  this  little  hurting  bruise, 
And  hum  a  bedtime  lullaby  — 

Take  back  the  pen: 
This  is  a  woman's  masterpiece. 


38 


Bread 

By  Ellis  Parker  Butler 

They  came  to  Iowa  in  a  prairie  schooner  with  a 
rounded  canvas  top  and  where  the  canvas  was 
brought  together  at  the  rear  of  the  wagon  it  left  a 
little  window  above  the  tailboard.  On  the  floor  of 
the  wagon  was  a  heap  of  hay  and  an  old  quilt  out 
of  which  the  matted  cotton  protruded,  and  on  this 
Martha  and  Eben  used  to  sit,  looking  out  of  the 
window.  Martha  was  a  little  over  two  years  old  and 
Eben  was  four. 

They  crossed  the  Mississippi  at  Muscatine  on  the 
ferry.  It  was  about  noon  and  old  Hodges,  the  crew 
of  the  ferry,  who  was  as  crooked  as  the  branches  of 
an  English  oak  because  the  huge  branch  of  an  Eng 
lish  oak  had  fallen  on  him  when  he  was  young,  took 
his  dinner  from  his  tin  pail.  He  looked  up  and  saw 
the  two  eager  little  faces. 

"Want  a  bite  to  eat?"  he  asked,  and  he  peeled 
apart  two  thick  slices  of  bread,  thickly  buttered,  and 
handed  them  up  to  the  two  youngsters.  This,  a  slice 
of  Mrs.  Hodges'  good  wheat  bread,  was  Martha's 
welcome  to  Iowa.  The  butter  was  as  fragrant  as  a 

39 


40  Bread 

flower  and  the  bread  was  moist  and  succulent,  deli 
cious  to  the  touch  and  the  taste.  Martha  ate  it  all, 
even  to  the  last  crumb  of  crust,  and,  although  she 
did  not  know  it,  the  gift,  the  acceptance  and  the 
eating  was  a  sacrament  —  the  welcome  of  bountiful 
Iowa. 

As  the  prairie  schooner  rolled  its  slow  way  inward 
into  the  state  there  were  more  slices  of  bread.  The 
father  stopped  the  weary  horses  at  many  houses, 
shacks  and  dugouts;  and  always  there  was  a  woman 
to  come  to  the  wagon  with  a  slice  of  bread  for 
Martha,  and  one  for  Eben,  for  that  was  the  Iowa 
way.  Sometimes  the  bread  was  buttered,  sometimes 
it  was  spread  with  jelly,  sometimes  it  was  bread 
alone.  It  was  all  good  bread. 

There  were  days  at  a  time,  after  they  reached  the 
new  home,  when  there  was  nothing  to  eat  but  bread, 
but  there  was  always  that.  The  neighbors  did  not 
wait  to  be  asked  to  lend;  they  brought  flour  unasked 
and  Martha's  mother  kneaded  it  and  set  it  to  rise  and 
baked  it.  Then  the  harvests  began  to  come  in  unin 
terrupted  succession  of  wealth,  and  the  dugout  became 
a  house,  and  barns  arose,  and  a  school  was  built,  and 
Martha  and  Eben  went  along  the  dusty,  un  fenced 
road,  barefooted,  happy,  well  fed,  or  in  winter 
leaped  through  the  snowdrifts.  In  their  well-filled 
lunch  pail  there  was  always  plenty  and  always  bread. 

In  time  Martha  taught  school,  now  in  one  district 


Ellis  Parker  Butler  41 

and  now  in  another;  and  everywhere,  wherever  she 
boarded,  there  was  good  wheat  bread  and  plenty  of 
it.  She  remembered  the  boarding  places  by  their 
bread.  Some  had  bread  as  good  as  her  mother's; 
some  had  bread  not  as  good.  During  her  first  vaca 
tion  her  mother  taught  her  to  make  bread.  Her  very 
first  baking  was  a  success.  John  Cartwright,  coming 
to  the  kitchen  door  just  as  she  was  drawing  the 
black  bread-pan  from  the  oven  on  that  hot  July  day, 
saw  her  eyes  sparkle  with  triumph  as  she  saw  the 
rich  brown  loaves. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?  It  is  my  first  bread,  John," 
she  said,  as  she  stood,  flushed  and  triumphant. 

"  It  smells  like  mother's,"  he  said,  "  but  she  don't 
seem  to  get  her'n  so  nice  and  brown." 

"  I  guess  Martha  is  a  natural  bread-maker,"  said 
her  mother  proudly.  "  Some  is  and  some  ain't." 

Always  good  bread  and  plenty  of  it!  That  was 
Iowa.  And  it  was  of  Martha's  bread  they  partook 
around  the  kitchen  table  the  next  year  —  Eben  and 
John,  Martha  and  her  father  and  mother  —  just 
before  the  two  young  men  drove  to  the  county  seat 
to  enlist. 

"  I  guess  we  won't  get  bread  like  this  in  the  army," 
John  said,  and  he  was  right. 

"  When  I'm  chawing  this  sow-belly  and  hard  tack," 
Eben  wrote,  "  I  wish  I  had  some  of  that  bread  of 
yours,  Marth.  I  guess  this  war  won't  last  long  and 


42  Bread 

the  minute  it  is  over  you'll  see  me  skedaddling  home 
for  some  of  your  bread.  Tell  ma  I'm  well  and  —  " 

They  brought  his  body  home  because  he  was  not 
killed  outright  but  lived  almost  two  weeks  in  the 
hospital  at  St.  Louis  after  he  was  wounded.  Martha 
scraped  the  dough  from  her  fingers  to  go  to  the  door 
when  her  father  drove  up  with  the  precious,  lifeless 
form.  That  day  her  bread  was  not  as  good  as  usual. 

Martha  and  John  were  married  the  month  he  came 
back  from  the  war,  and  the  bread  that  was  eaten  at 
the  wedding  dinner  was  Martha's  own  baking.  The 
bread  that  was  eaten  by  those  who  came  to  prepare 
her  mother  for  the  grave  and  by  those  who  came, 
a  year  later,  to  lay  away  her  father,  was  Martha's. 
Once,  twice,  three  times,  four  times  Martha  did  a 
double  baking,  to  "  last  over,"  so  that  there  might  be 
bread  in  the  house  while  the  babies  were  being  born. 
Every  week,  except  those  four  weeks,  she  baked 
bread. 

In  succession  the  small  boys  and  girls  of  her  own 
began  coming  to  the  kitchen  door  pleading,  "  Ma, 
may  I  have  a  piece  of  bread  an'  butter?"  Always 
they  might.  There  was  always  plenty  of  bread;  it 
was  Iowa. 

In  time  Martha  became  something  of  a  fanatic 
about  flour.  One  kind  was  the  best  flour  in  the 
world;  she  would  have  no  other.  Once,  when  John 
brought  back  another  brand,  she  sent  him  back  to 


Ellis  Parker  Butler  43 

town  with  it.  Her  bread  was  so  well  known  that 
the  flour  dealer  in  town  was  wont  to  say,  "  This  is 
the  kind  Mis'  Cartwright  uses;  I  guess  I  can't  say 
no  more'n  that."  Eight  times  in  twenty  years  she 
won  the  blue  ribbon  at  the  county  fair  for  her 
loaves;  the  twelve  other  times  John  swore  the  judges 
were  prejudiced.  "  It  ain't  the  flour ;  that  I  do 
know !  "  Martha  would  answer. 

Presently  there  were  children  of  her  children  com 
ing  on  Sunday  to  spend  the  day  with  the  "  old  folks/' 
and  there  was  always  enough  bread  for  all.  Some 
time  in  the  afternoon  the  big  loaf  would  be  taken 
out  of  the  discarded  tin  boiler  that  served  as  a  bread- 
box  and  the  children  would  have  a  "  piece  "  —  huge 
slices  of  bread,  limber  in  the  hand,  spread  with  brown 
sugar,  or  jelly,  or  honey,  or  dripping  with  jam. 
Then,  one  Sunday,  young  John's  wife  brought  a  loaf 
of  her  own  bread  to  show  Martha.  They  battled 
pleasantly  for  two  hours  over  the  merits  of  two 
brands  of  flour,  comparing  the  bread,  but  Martha 
would  no  more  have  given  up  her  own  brand  than 
she  would  have  deserted  the  Methodist  Church  to 
become  a  Mahometan! 

Then  came  a  time  when  John  had  difficulty  in 
holding  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  because  his  "pipe 
tooth  "  was  gone.  He  no  longer  ate  the  crusts  of 
Martha's  bread  except  when  he  dipped  them  in  his 
coffee.  There  was  a  strong,  young  girl  to  do  the 


44  Bread 

housework  but  Martha  still  made  the  bread,  just  such 
beautiful,  richly  browned,  fragrant  bread  as  she  had 
made  in  her  younger  days.  There  had  never  been 
a  week  without  the  good  bread,  for  this  was  Iowa. 

One  day,  as  she  was  kneading  the  dough,  she 
stopped  suddenly  and  put  her  hand  to  her  side,  under 
her  heart.  She  had  to  wait  several  minutes  before 
she  could  go  on  with  the  kneading.  Then  she  shaped 
the  bread  into  loaves  and  put  it  in  the  pan  and  put 
the  pan  in  the  oven.  She  went  out  on  the  porch, 
where  John  was  sitting,  and  talked  about  the  weather, 
and  then  of  a  grandson,  Horace,  who  was  the  first 
to  enlist  for  the  great  war  that  was  wracking  the 
world.  She  mentioned  the  poor  Belgians. 

"  And  us  so  comfortable  here,  and  all ! "  she  said. 
"  When  I  think  of  them  not  having  bread  enough 
to  eat  —  " 

"  I  warrant  they  never  did  have  bread  like  yours 
to  eat,  ma,"  said  John. 

She  rocked  slowly,  happy  and  proud  that  her  man 
thought  that,  and  then  she  went  in  to  take  the  fresh 
loaves  from  the  oven.  They  were  crisp  and  golden 
brown  as  always,  great,  plump,  nourishing  loaves 
of  good  wheat  bread.  She  carried  the  pan  to  the 
table. 

"Bertha,"  she  said,  "I'll  let  you  put  the  bread 
away.  I  guess  I'll  go  up  and  lie  down  awhile;  I 
don't  feel  right  well." 


Ellis  Parker  Butler  45 

She  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  tell  John 
she  was  going  up;  that  she  did  not  feel  very  well. 

"  If  I  don't  come  down  to  supper,"  she  said,  "  you 
can  have  Bertha  cut  a  loaf  of  the  fresh  bread,  but 
you'd  better  not  eat  too  much  of  it,  John;  it  don't 
always  agree  with  you.  There's  plenty  of  the  other 
loaf  left." 

She  did  not  come  down  again,  not  Martha  her 
self.  She  did  not  mourn  because  she  could  not  come 
down  again.  She  had  lived  her  life  and  it  had  been 
a  good  life,  happy,  well-nourished,  satisfying  as  her 
own  bread  had  been.  And  so,  when  they  came  back 
from  leaving  Martha  beside  the  brother  who  had  died 
so  many  years  before,  the  last  loaf  of  her  last  baking 
was  cut  and  eaten  around  the  kitchen  table  —  the 
youngsters  biting  eagerly  into  the  thick  slices,  the 
elders  tasting  with  thoughts  not  on  the  bread  at  all, 
and  old  John  crumbling  the  bread  in  his  fingers  and 
thinking  of  long  past  years. 


At  Kamakura:  1917 

By  Arthur  Damson  Ficke 

The  world  shakes  with  the  terrible  tramp  of  war 
And  the  foe's  menace  swirls  through  every  sea. 
But  here  the  Buddha  still  broods  ceaselessly 
In  hush  more  real  than  our  strange  tumults  are. 

Here  where  the  fighting  hosts  of  long  ago 
Once  clashed  and  fell,  here  where  the  armored  hordes 
Razed  the  great  city  with  their  flashing  swords, 
Now  only  waves  flash,  only  breezes  blow. 


46 


That  Iowa  Town 

By  Oney  Fred  Sweet 

According  to  the  popular  songs,  we  are  apt  to  get 
the  impression  that  the  only  section  of  the  country 
where  there  is  moonlight  and  a  waiting  sweetheart 
and  a  home  worth  longing  for  is  down  in  Dixie. 
Judging  from  the  movies,  a  plot  to  appeal  must 
have  a  mountain  or  a  desert  setting  of  the  West. 
Fictionists,  so  many  of  them,  seem  to  think  they 
must  locate  their  heroines  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  their 
heroes  at  sea.  But  could  I  write  songs  or  direct 
cinema  dramas  or  pen  novels  I'd  get  my  inspiration 
from  that  Iowa  town. 

Did  you  ever  drive  in  from  an  Iowa  farm  to  a 
Fourth  of  July  celebration?  A  few  years  back  the 
land  wasn't  worth  quite  so  much  an  acre;  the 
sloughs  hadn't  been  tiled  yet  and  the  country  hadn't 
discovered  what  a  limited  section  of  real  good  corn 
land  there  was  after  all.  But  she  was  Iowa  then! 
Remember  how  the  hot  sun  dawned  early  to  shimmer 
across  the  knee-high  fields  and  blaze  against  the  side 
of  the  big  red  barn,  how  the  shadows  of  the  willow 
windbreak  shortened  and  the  fan  on  top  of  the  tall 

47 


48  That  Iowa  Town 

windmill  faintly  creaked?  The  hired  man  had  deco 
rated  his  buggy-whip  with  a  tiny  ribbon  of  red,  white 
and  blue.  Buggy- whip  —  sound  queer  now  ?  Well, 
there  were  only  three  automobiles  in  the  county  then 
and  they  were  the  feature  of  the  morning  parade. 
Remember  how  the  two  blocks  of  Main  Street  were 
draped  with  bunting  and  flags,  and  the  courthouse 
lawn  was  dotted  with  white  dresses?  Well,  anyhow 
you  remember  the  girls  with  parasols  who  represented 
the  states,  and  the  float  bearing  the  Goddess  of 
Liberty.  And  then  the  storm  came  in  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon.  The  lightning  and  the  thunder,  and 
the  bunting  with  the  red,  white  and  blue  somewhat 
streaked  together  but  still  fluttering.  And  just  before 
sunset,  you  remember,  it  brightened  up  again,  and 
out  past  the  low-roofed  depot  and  the  tall  grain 
elevator  you  could  see  the  streak  of  blue  and  the  play 
of  the  departing  sun  against  the  spent  clouds. 
Nowhere  else,  above  no  other  town,  could  clouds 
pile  just  like  that. 

You  remember  that  morning,  once  a  year,  when 
the  lilacs  had  just  turned  purple  out  by  the  front 
gate,  and  the  dew  was  still  wet  on  the  green  grass, 
the  faint  strains  of  band-music  drifting  out  above 
the  maples  of  the  town,  and  flags  hanging  out  on 
the  porches  —  Decoration  Day !  How  we  used  to 
hunt  through  the  freshly  awakened  woods  north  of 
town  for  the  rarest  wildflowers!  Tender  petaled 


Oney  Fred  Sweet  49 

bloodroots  there  were  in  plenty,  and  cowslips  down 
by  the  spring,  and  honeysuckles  on  the  creek  bank 
those  late  May  days,  but  the  lady's  slippers  and  the 
jack  in  the  pulpits  —  one  had  to  know  the  hidden 
recesses  where  they  grew.  Withered  they  became 
before  the  hot  sun  sank,  sending  rays  from  the  west 
that  made  the  tombstones  gleam  like  gold.  Some 
how,  on  those  days,  the  sky  seemed  a  bluer  blue  when 
the  words  of  the  speaker  at  the  "  Monument  of  the 
Unknown  Dead  "  were  carried  off  by  the  faint  breeze 
that  muffled,  too,  the  song  of  the  quartet  and  the 
music  of  the  band.  But  close  in  your  ears  were  the 
chirps  of  the  insects  in  the  bluegrass  and  the  robins 
that  hopped  about  in  the  branches  of  the  evergreens. 
We  had  our  quota  of  civil  war  veterans  in  that 
Iowa  town.  We  had  our  company  that  went  down 
to  Chickamauga  in  '98.  And  now  —  well,  you  know 
what  to  expect  from  the  youth  of  that  sort  of  a 
community.  Prosperity  can't  rob  a  place  like  that 
of  its  pioneer  virtues.  That  Iowa  town  is  an 
American  town  and  it  simply  wouldn't  fit  into  the 
German  system  at  all.  There's  nothing  old  world 
about  it.  The  present  generation  may  have  it  easier 
than  their  fathers  did;  they  may  ride  in  automobiles 
instead  of  lumber  wagons ;  they  may  wear  pinch  back 
coats  and  long  beak  caps  instead  of  overalls  and  straw 
hats,  but  they've  inherited  something  beside  material 
wealth.  We  who  owned  none  of  its  surrounding 


50  That  Iowa  Town 

acres  when  they  were  cheap  and  find  them  now  so  out 
of  reach,  are  yet  rich,  fabulously  rich  in  inheritance. 
The  last  I  heard  from  that  Iowa  town  its  youth  was 
donning  khaki  for  the  purpose  of  helping  to  keep  the 
Kaiser  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea. 

But  it  was  of  the  town  we  used  to  know  that  I 
was  speaking.  Changed?  We  must  realize  that.  It 
was  the  sort  that  improves  rather  than  grows.  But 
we  remember  the  place  as  it  was  before  the  black 
smith  shop  was  turned  into  a  garage  and  before  the 
harness  shop  was  given  an  electric  lighted  front  and 
transformed  into  a  movie.  I  guess  the  new  genera 
tion  has  long  since  passed  up  the  old  opera  house 
above  the  drug  store  for  the  rejuvenated  harness 
shop  and  the  actors  that  come  by  express  in  canned 
celluloid.  But  at  county  fair  time,  you  remember, 
the  Cora  Warner  Comedy  Company  used  to  come  for 
a  week's  engagement,  Cora  Warner,  noticeably  wrin 
kled  as  she  walked  through  the  park  from  the  hotel, 
donning  a  blonde  wig  that  enabled  her  to  play  sou- 
brette  parts  of  the  old  school.  And  then  there  were 
the  Beach  and  Bowers  minstrels  with  their  band  that 
swung  breezily  up  Main  Street  to  form  a  circle  on  the 
bank  corner  and  lift  the  whole  center  of  the  town  out 
of  the  commonplace  by  the  blare  of  trombones  and 
the  tenderness  of  clarinets.  You  remember  how  we 
Boy  Scouts,  who  didn't  know  we  were  Boy  Scouts, 
used  to  clamor  for  the  front  row  of  kitchen 


Oney  Fred  Sweet  51 

chairs  after  peddling  bills  for  "  The  Octoroon  "  or 
"  Nevada,  and  the  Lost  Mine  "  ? 

Oh,  well,  we're  uninteresting  old-timers  now.  And 
it  used  to  be  that  I  knew  everyone  in  town  —  even 
the  transient  baker  whose  family  had  no  garden  and 
chickens  but  lived  up  over  the  furniture  store,  and 
the  temporary  telephone  man  who  sat  out  in  front  of 
the  hotel  evenings  with  the  pale-faced  traveling  man. 
That  hotel  —  haunted  with  an  atmosphere  that  was 
brought  in  from  the  outside  world!  Remember  how 
you  used  to  walk  past  it  with  awe,  the  hot  sun  on 
the  plank  sidewalk  burning  your  bare  feet,  and  your 
eyes  wistful  as  you  heard  the  bus  man  on  the  steps 
call  a  train?  And  the  time  came  when  we  took  the 
train  ourselves.  And  when  we  came  back  — 

When  we  came  back,  the  town  was  still  there,  but 
the  wondrous  age  when  all  life  is  roseate  belonged 
to  us  no  longer. 

And  yet  that  town,  to  me,  will  always  be  as  it 
was  in  those  days  when  the  world  was  giving  me  its 
first  pink-tinted  impressions.  And  when  my  tussle 
with  the  world  as  it  really  is  comes  to  a  close,  I  want 
to  go  back  there  and  take  my  last  long  sleep  beneath 
one  of  those  evergreens  on  the  hillside  where  I  know 
the  robins  hop  along  the  branches.  I  know  how  each 
season's  change  comes  there  —  the  white  drifts,  the 
dew  on  the  bluegrass,  the  rustling  of  crimsoned 
leaves.  I'll  know  that  off  on  the  prairies  beyond,  the 


52  That  Iowa  Town 

cornfields  will  still  wave  green  in  summer,  and  that 
from  back  across  the  creek,  over  in  the  school  yard, 
there  will  float  the  old  hushed  echo  of  youth  at  play. 


But  Once  a  Year 

By  R.  O'Grady 

A  shabby  little  woman  detached  herself  from  the 
steadily  marching  throng  on  the  avenue  and  paused 
before  a  shop  window,  from  which  solid  rows  of 
electric  bulbs  flashed  brilliantly  into  the  December 
twilight.  The  ever-increasing  current  of  Christmas 
shoppers  flowed  on.  Now  and  then  it  rolled  up,  like 
the  waters  of  the  Jordan,  while  a  lady  with  rich  warm 
furs  about  her  shoulders  made  safe  passage  from  her 
car  to  the  tropic  atmosphere  of  the  great  department 
store. 

Warmth,  and  the  savory  smells  from  a  bakery 
kitchen  wafted  up  through  the  grating  of  a  near-by 
pavement,  modifying  the  nipping  air.  The  shabby 
little  woman,  only  half  conscious  of  such  gratuitous 
comfort,  adjusted  her  blinking  gaze  to  the  brightness 
and  looked  hungrily  at  the  costumes  shimmering 
under  the  lights.  Wax  figures  draped  with  rainbow- 
tinted,  filmy  evening  gowns  caught  her  passing  ad 
miration,  but  she  lingered  over  the  street  costumes, 
the  silk-lined  coats  and  soft,  warm  furs.  Elbowed 
by  others  who  like  herself  were  eager  to  look,  even 

53 


54  But  Once  a  Year 

though  they  could  not  buy,  she  held  her  ground  until 
she  had  made  her  choice. 

With  her  wistful  gaze  still  fixed  upon  her  favorite, 
she  had  begun  to  edge  her  way  through  the  crowd  at 
the  window,  when  she  felt,  rather  than  saw,  someone 
different  from  the  rest,  close  at  her  side.  At  the 
same  instant,  she  caught  the  scent  of  fresh-cut  flowers 
and  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  a  tall  young  girl  in  a 
white-plumed  velvet  hat,  with  a  bunch  of  English 
violets  in  her  brown  mink  fur. 

As  their  glances  met,  the  shabby  little  woman 
checked  a  start,  and  half -defensively  dropped  her 
lids.  The  smile  that  shone  evanescently  from  the 
girl's  cordial  eyes  had  aroused  in  her  a  feeling  of 
something  unwonted,  and  strangely  intimate.  There 
had  flashed  over  the  mobile  face  beneath  the  velvet 
hat  a  look  of  personal  interest  —  an  unmistakable 
impulse  to  speak. 

The  thrill  of  response  that  set  the  woman's  pulses 
throbbing  died  suddenly.  The  red  that  mottled  her 
grayish  cheeks  was  the  red  of  shame.  Through  the 
window,  in  a  mirrored  panel  cruelly  ablaze  with  light, 
she  saw  herself:  her  made-over  turban,  her  short, 
pigeon-tailed  jacket  of  a  style  long  past,  and  her  old 
otter  cape  with  its  queer  caudal  decorations  and  its 
yellowed  cracks  grinning  through  the  plucked  and 
ragged  fur. 

One  glance  at  her  own  image  was  enough.     The 


R.  O'Grady  55 

little  woman  pushed  determinedly  into  the  slow- 
moving  crush,  and  headed  toward  the  nearest  elevated 
station,  to  be  carried  on  irresistibly  by  the  army  of 
pedestrians. 

She  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the  tall  young  girl, 
coming  in  her  direction,  still  watching  her  with  that 
same  eager  look.  But  what  of  that?  She  knew  why 
women  stared  curiously  at  her.  By  the  time  her  sta 
tion  was  reached,  the  occurrence  had  assumed  in  her 
mind  a  painful  significance  which  emphasized  the 
sordidness  of  her  evening's  routine.  She  made  her 
way  along  a  narrow,  dimly  lighted  street,  walking 
with  the  aimless  gait  of  one  who  neither  expects  nor 
is  expected. 

But,  loiter  as  she  might,  she  soon  reached  a  neigh 
borhood  where  rows  of  narrow  brick  tenements 
brooded  over  dingy,  cluttered  basement  shops.  Here 
she  found  it  necessary  to  accelerate  her  pace  to  make 
way  for  romping  children  and  bareheaded  women 
hurrying  from  the  shops  with  their  suppers  in  paper 
bags. 

In  spite  of  the  wintry  chill,  the  section  had  an  air 
of  activity  all  its  own.  Neither  did  it  lack  occasional 
evidences  of  Christmas  cheer.  In  the  window  of  a 
little  news  and  fruit  shop,  against  the  smeared  and 
partly  frosted  glass,  a  holly  wreath  was  hanging,  and 
within  stood  a  rack  of  gaudy,  tinseled  Christmas 
cards.  The  woman  hesitated,  as  if  about  to  enter  the 


56  But  Once  a  Year 

shop,  then  abruptly  passed  on.  She  ascended  one  of 
the  stoops  that  were  all  alike.  Standing  in  a  blur 
of  reddish  light  that  filtered  through  the  broken  glass 
above  the  door,  she  looked  back  the  way  she  had 
come. 

For  an  instant  her  pulses  quickened  again  as  they 
had  done  on  the  avenue  down-town.  At  the  corner, 
a  tall  girl  with  a  white-plumed  velvet  hat  was  smil 
ingly  picking  her  way  through  the  swarming  element 
so  foreign,  apparently,  to  one  of  her  class.  As  the 
white  plume  came  nearer  and  nearer,  the  tremulous 
little  woman  regained  her  self-control.  It  was  but 
one  of  the  coincidences  of  the  city,  she  told  herself, 
turning  resolutely  away.  The  door  slammed  shut 
behind  her. 

Odd,  she  thought,  as  she  groped  her  way  through 
the  dimly  lighted  lower  hall,  and  the  complete  dark 
ness  of  the  upper,  that  such  a  girl  should  be  living  in 
such  a  neighborhood.  Then,  with  an  effort,  she 
dismissed  the  matter  from  her  mind. 

To  find  a  match  and  light  the  sputtering  gas  re 
quired  but  very  few  steps  in  her  tiny  box  of  a  room. 
When  that  was  accomplished,  she  could  think  of 
nothing  more  to  do.  Her  little  taste  of  excitement 
had  spoiled  her  zest  for  any  of  the  homy  rites  which 
at  other  times  formed  the  biggest  events  of  her  day. 
As  she  sank  down  upon  the  cot  without  removing 
her  wraps,  she  was  greeted  by  the  usual  creaking  of 


R.  O'Grady  57 

rusty  springs;  her  table  with  its  meager  array  of 
dishes,  its  coffee  pot  and  little  alcohol  burner,  sat  as 
ever  in  its  corner,  inviting  the  preparation  of  her 
evening  meal.  But  to-night  she  did  not  want  to  eat. 
She  had  not  visited  the  bake-shop  on  her  way  home. 
She  had  not  even  bought  her  daily  paper  at  the  corner 
stand  where  the  postcards  were  —  those  gay  Christ 
mas  cards  that  bring  you  greetings  from  friends. 

As  she  slowly  removed  her  turban,  her  jacket  and 
fur  cape  and,  without  getting  up,  tossed  them  across 
a  chair  against  the  opposite  wall,  the  dull  ache  of 
dissatisfaction  in  her  heart  grew  slowly  to  a  sharp 
pain  of  desire.  She  wanted  to  do  something,  to  have 
something  happen  that  might  break  the  sordid  routine 
of  her  existence. 

Still,  habit  and  environment  would  continue  to 
force  at  least  a  part  of  this  routine  upon  her.  She 
glanced  at  her  fingers,  stained  to  an  oily,  bluish  grime 
by  the  cheap  dye  of  the  garments  that  furnished  her 
daily  work.  Mechanically  she  rose  to  wash. 

While  her  hands  were  immersed  in  the  lather  of 
rankly  perfumed  toilet  soap,  there  came  a  gentle 
knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in/'  invited  the  woman,  expecting  some 
famine-pressed  neighbor  for  a  spoonful  of  coffee  or  a 
drawing  of  tea. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  a  tentative  aperture. 

"  May  I  eome  in  ?  "  asked  a  voice  that  was  sweeter 


58  But  Once  a  Year 

than  the  breath  of  violets  that  preceded  the  caller  into 
the  room. 

With  the  towel  clutched  in  her  dripping  hands,  the 
woman  flung  wide  open  the  door,  then  hastened  to 
unload  the  chair  which  held  her  wraps  —  her  only 
chair. 

"  Thank  you;  don't  bother,"  urged  the  visitor.  "  I 
shall  like  sitting  on  the  couch." 

There  was  a  melody  of  enthusiasm  in  this  remark, 
which  the  complaining  of  the  cot,  as  the  girl  dropped 
easily  upon  it,  could  not  wholly  drown. 

The  woman,  having  absently  hung  her  towel  on  the 
doorknob,  stared  dazedly  at  the  visitant.  She  could 
hardly  credit  her  eyes.  It  was  —  it  was  indeed  the 
girl  with  the  white  ostrich  plume  and  the  bouquet  of 
violets  in  her  brown  mink  fur. 

"  I  feel  like  an  intruder,"  began  the  girl,  "  and,  do 
you  know  —  "  her  appraising  glance  directed  to  the 
old  fur  collar  on  the  chair,  was  guiltily  withdrawn 
as  she  spoke  — "  do  you  know,  I've  such  a  silly 
excuse  for  coming."  She  laughed,  and  the  laugh 
brought  added  music  to  her  voice. 

The  woman,  now  at  last  recalled  from  her  abstrac 
tion,  smiled,  and  the  weariness  passed  from  her  face. 
She  seated  herself  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  humpy, 
complaining  cot. 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  understand,"  resumed  the  girl. 
"  At  least,  I  hope  you'll  not  be  offended.  .  .  . 


R.  O'Grady  59 

I  heard  .  .  .  that  is,  I  noticed  you  had  a  rare 
fur-piece  —  "  her  vivid  glance  returned  to  the  pile  of 
wraps  on  the  chair  — "  and  I  want  to  ask  a  very 
great  favor  of  you.  I  —  now  please  don't  be 
shocked  —  I've  been  ransacking  the  city  for  some 
thing  like  it,  and  —  "  with  a  determined  air  of  taking 
the  plunge  —  "I  should  like  to  buy  it  of  you !  " 

"  Buy  it ! "  scorned  the  woman,  with  a  sudden 
dull  red  staining  her  sallow  cheeks.  "  I  can't  see  why 
anyone  would  want  to  pay  money  for  such  a  thing 
as  that." 

"  It  —  it's  a  rare  pattern,  you  know,"  groped  the 
girl,  her  sweet  tones  assuming  an  eloquent,  per 
suasive  quiver,  "  and  —  and  you  don't  know  how  glad 
I'd  be  to  have  it." 

The  indignant  color  faded  out  of  the  woman's 
face.  "If  you  really  want  the  thing  — "  abruptly 
she  put  her  bizarre  possession  into  her  strange 
visitor's  lap  —  "  If  you  really  want  it  —  but  I  don't 
see  —  "  yearning  crept  into  her  work-dimmed  eyes,  a 
yearning  that  seemed  to  struggle  with  disillusionment. 
"  Tell  me,"  she  broke  off,  "  is  that  all  you  came 
here  for?" 

Apparently  oblivious  to  the  question,  the  young 
woman  rose  to  her  feet.  "  You'll  sell  it  to  me  then !  " 
she  triumphed,  opening  her  gold-bound  purse. 

"  But,  see  here,"  demurred  the  woman,  "  I  can't 
—  it  ain't  worth  —  " 


60  But  Once  a  Year 

The  girl's  gloved  hands  went  fumbling  into  her 
purse,  while  the  old  fur  cape  hung  limply  across  one 
velvet  arm. 

"  You  leave  it  to  me,"  she  commanded,  and 
smiled,  a  radiant,  winning  smile. 

Impulsively  the  woman  drew  close  to  her  guest. 
"  Excuse  me,"  she  faltered,  "  but,  do  you  know  — 
you  look  ever-so-much  like  a  little  niece  of  mine 
back  —  home  ?  " 

"Do  I?  That's  nice."  The  visitor  looked  at  her 
watch.  A  note  of  abstraction  had  crept  into  her 
beautiful  voice,  but  it  still  held  the  caress  that  invited 
the  woman's  confidence. 

"  Yes,  my  little  niece  —  excuse  me  —  I  haven't 
seen  her  for  twelve  years  —  most  fifteen  years,  I 
guess.  She'd  be  growed  up,  but  I  thought  —  when  I 
saw  you  down-town  —  " 

"  Oh,  you  remember  me,  then !  Forgive  me  for 
following  — "  The  girl  seized  the  woman's  soap- 
reddened  hands  in  a  sudden  fervent  clasp.  "  I  under 
stand,  "  she  breathed.  "  You  must  be  lonely.  .  .  . 
I'll  try  to  see  you  again  —  I  surely  will  .  .  . 
Good-bye  .  . " 

The  girl  was  gone  and  all  at  once  the  room  seemed 
colder  and  dingier  than  it  ever  had  before.  But  the 
woman  was  not  cold.  As  she  sat  huddled  on  the  cot, 
warmth  and  vitality  glowed  within  her,  kindled  by 
the  memory  of  a  recent  kindly  human  touch. 


R.  O'Grady  61 

The  following  evening,  after  working  hours,  the 
shabby  woman,  wearing  a  faded  scarf  about  her  neck 
to  replace  the  old  fur  collar,  diffidently  accosted  a 
saleslady  at  the  Sixth  Avenue  department  store.  She 
wanted  to  buy  a  brown  mink  collar,  just  like  one 
worn  by  a  figure  in  green  in  the  window. 

It  was  unusual  to  sell  expensive  furs  to  such  a  cus 
tomer.  But  people  might  send  what  freaks  of  serv 
ants  they  pleased  to  do  their  Christmas  shopping, 
provided  they  sent  the  money,  too.  In  this  case,  the 
shabby  little  woman  was  prepared.  She  produced 
three  crisp  ten-dollar  bills  —  the  fabulous  sum  which 
the  girl  had  left  in  her  hand  at  parting  —  and  two 
dollars  more  from  the  savings  in  her  worn  little  purse. 
Then,  hugging  the  big  flat  box  against  the  tight- 
fitting  bosom  of  her  jacket,  she  triumphantly  left 
the  store. 

In  a  sort  of  tender  ecstasy  she  dallied  along  until 
she  came  to  a  florist's  window.  As  she  paused  to 
gaze  at  great  bunches  of  carnations  and  roses,  tied 
with  broad  and  streaming  ribbons,  the  anxious  look 
that  attends  the  doubtful  shopper  returned  to  her 
face.  Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  go  in?  Since  she 
must  either  keep  moving  or  be  carried  along  by  the 
crowd,  she  edged  through  the  revolving  door. 

"English  violets?  —  Fifty  cents  for  the  small 
bunches,"  clipped  off  the  red-cheeked  salesgirl,  in 
reply  to  the  woman's  groping  inquiry. 


62  But  Once  a  Year 

The  perturbed  shopper  turned  reluctantly  away, 
hesitated,  and  then  asked: 

"  But  the  roses  ?     A  single,  half-blown  rose  —  ?  " 

"  Twenty-five  apiece,  "  replied  the  girl  in  the  same 
mechanical  tones,  while  she  busied  herself  in  rear 
ranging  a  basket  of  flowers. 

"  I  —  I'll  take  the  rose." 

At  the  express  orifice,  where  scores  were  waiting 
before  her,  the  woman  had  ample  time  to  untie  her 
box  and  slip  the  rosebud  beneath  the  tissue  paper  of 
the  inner  wrapping.  Then,  having  retied  it  securely 
and  stuck  a  "Do-not-open-until-Christmas"  tag  in  a 
conspicuous  place,  she  took  her  stand  in  line.  When 
it  finally  came  her  turn  at  the  desk,  a  stout  clerk,  who 
worked  like  an  automaton  and  breathed  like  an  ox, 
tore  the  package  from  her  lingering  grasp  and  dashed 
across  the  wrapper  the  address  she  gave. 

She  paid  the  charges,  wadded  the  receipt  into  her 
purse  and  turned  briskly  away. 

Fresh  crullers  she  took  to  her  room  from  the 
bake-shop,  having  bought  them  from  a  dark,  greasy 
•woman,  whom  she  wished  a  "  Merry  Christmas  "  in 
a  voice  that  almost  sang.  At  dusk  she  had  coffee 
in  her  room.  It  was  Christmas  Eve  and  she  must 
begin  early  to  get  her  full  share  of  the  season's 
peculiar  indulgences.  After  she  had  read  her  paper 
for  an  hour  or  so  by  the  recklessly  flaming  gas  jet, 
she  bustled  about  to  brew  another  cup  of  coffee, 


R.  O'Grady  63 

and  feasted  upon  crullers  for  the  second  time.  At 
last  she  filled  a  water-bottle  with  tepid  water  from 
a  faucet  in  the  hall,  and  prepared  for  bed. 

The  chill  of  the  bedclothes,  upon  which  the  tepid 
water-bottle  had  little  effect,  could  not  touch  the  cozy 
warmth  about  the  woman's  heart.  Neither  were  the 
happy  memories  of  her  strange  and  lovely  visitor 
disturbed  by  knowledge  of  an  incident  that  was 
taking  place  at  that  very  hour.  As  she  bounced  into 
her  cot,  humming  a  little  tune,  she  did  not  know  that 
at  a  down-town  theater  a  popular  young  actress  was 
just  responding  to  an  insistent  curtain  call.  Nor 
could  she  have  recognized  the  graceful  young  girl, 
issuing  from  the  wings  in  a  new  character  part  — 
an  extreme  type  of  eccentric  maidenhood  —  except 
for  the  plucked  and  ragged  fur-piece  which  formed 
the  keynote  of  the  performer's  quaint  attire. 

No  knowledge  of  this  episode  disturbed  the  half- 
drowsy,  half-blissful  state  which  supplanted  the 
woman's  sleep  that  night.  The  incident  cast  no  cloud 
upon  her  eager  awakening,  nor  retarded  her  active 
leap  from  bed  when  the  voice  of  her  landlady  aroused 
her  with  a  start  on  Christmas  morning. 

"  Eggs-press,  eggs-press  ...  a  package  for 
Miss  Law-lor-r-r ! " 

Full-chested  and  lingering,  the  call  reverberated  up 
three  flights  of  naked  stairs,  and  by  the  time  the 
woman  had  donned  her  skirt  and  sweater  and  had 


64  But  Once  a  Year 

emerged  into  the  twilight  of  the  upper  hall,  frowsy, 
curious  heads  protruded  from  every  door. 

She  carried  the  bulky  Christmas  package  to  her 
own  room,  moving  deliberately,  in  shy,  half-guilty 
triumph,  and  placed  it  on  the  cot.  Behind  her  closed 
door  she  untied  it,  removed  the  cover  and  smilingly 
bent  down  to  draw  an  eager  inhalation  from  the 
tissue  paper  folds.  Then,  with  careful  fingers,  she 
parted  the  crisp  inner  wrappings  and  unearthed  a 
wilting,  half-blown  rose  from  its  nest  in  the  brown 
mink  fur. 


The  Reminder 

By  Allan  Updegraff 

A  little  Belgian  and  an  old  violin  — 

A  short,  dumpy,  melancholy  little  Belgian 

And  a  very  fine  old  violin.     .     .     . 

An  inconsequential  small  Belgian 

Wearing  a  discouraged  bit  of  mustache, 

American  "  store  "  clothes  that  didn't  fit, 

Cheap  American  shoes,  shined  but  shapeless.     .     .     , 

(And  yet  he  had  often  played  in  high  honor 

Before  great  audiences  in  Belgium; 

But  that  was  before  Hell's  lid  was  lifted 

Somewhere  in  the  North  of  Germany  — 

May  it  be  clamped  down,  hard,  before  long!) 

So  this  shabby,  fat,  discouraged  oldish  Belgian 
(Too  old  and  fat  for  military  service), 
And  his  very  old  beautiful  violin, 
(Borrowed  —  he'd   lost   his  better   one  to  his   con 
querors), 

Appeared  before  a  dubious  tag-end  of  an  audience 
In  a  music  hall  built  in  the  woods 

65 


66  The  Reminder 

Near  an  American  summer  resort, 

And  played  a  dozen  selections  for  forty-five  dollars. 

Then  we  learned  why  he  had  often  played  in  high 

honor 

Before  great  audiences  in  Belgium; 
And  why  his  king  and  his  country 
Had  given  him  the  honors  he  still  wore, 
The  riches  recently  taken  away 
By  his  conquerors. 

Then  we  saw  what  manner  of  man  he  was, 
How  that  his  soul  was  finely  clad,  upright, 
Nobly  statured,  crowned  with  Apollo's  bays. 
Then  we  knew,  when  he  played  Tartini's  sonata  for 

violin, 

That  Belgium  would  own  once  more 
Its  little  place  in  the  sun. 

For  the  old  Italian  master  might  have  written  that 

sonata 

With  the  devastated  Belgium  of  these  days  in  mind. 
First,  streaming  from  beneath  the  Belgian's  sentient 

bow, 

The  music  told  of  peace  and  common  things, 
With  some  bickering,  some  trivialities, 
But  much  melody  and  deep  harmony  underneath. 


Allan  Updegraff  67 

The  third  movement,  affetuoso,  awoke  to  ruin  — 
To  ruin  too  sudden  and  complete. 


Too  bloody  and  bestial  and  cruel 
And  thorough  and  filthy  and  Prussian 
To  be  more  than  wailed  over  softly. 

There  was  a  stabbed  child 

Lying  in  the  mud  beneath  a  half-burned  house, 

Beside  the  naked  corpse  of  its  mother, 

The  mutilated  bodies  of  its  old  grandfather, 

And  young  sister; 

And  the  child  cried  faintly,  and  moaned, 

And  cried  again.     .     .     . 

And  then  was  silent. 

A  while  after,  from  far  away, 

Rose  dull  outcries,  trampling  feet, 

Voices  indomitable  — 

Retreating,     returning,     joined     by     others,     dying, 

reviving, 

Always  indomitable. 
And  still  others  joined  those  beaten  but  unconquered 

ones, 

And  the  end  came  in  one  long,  high, 
Indomitable  cry. 


68  The  Reminder 

Then  we  knew,  and  bowed  our  heads, 
And  were  ashamed  of  our  poor  part, 
And  prayed  God  we  might  bear  a  nobler  part, 
In  the  reply  to  that  most  cold-planned, 
Murderously  carried  out, 
Unexpurgable  horror  over  there. 


"Old  Bill" 

By  Henry  C.  Wallace 

We  buried  Old  Bill  to-day.  As  we  came  back  to 
the  house  it  seemed  almost  as  if  we  had  laid  away 
a  member  of  the  family.  All  afternoon  I  have  been 
thinking  of  him,  and  this  evening  I  want  to  tell  you 
the  story. 

Old  Bill  was  a  horse,  and  he  was  owned  by  four 
generations  of  our  family.  He  was  forty-one  years 
old  when  he  died,  so  you  will  understand  that  for 
many  years  he  was  what  some  might  call  a  "  dead- 
beat  boarder."  But  long  ago  he  had  paid  in  advance 
for  his  board  as  long  as  he  might  stay  with  us.  In 
winter  a  warm  corner  of  the  stable  was  his  as  a 
matter  of  right,  and  not  a  day  went  by  but  a  lump 
of  sugar,  an  apple,  or  some  other  tidbit  found  its 
way  to  him  from  the  hands  of  those  who  loved  him. 
Old  Bill  was  never  in  the  slightest  danger  of  meeting 
the  sad  fate  of  many  a  faithful  old  horse  in  the  hands 
of  the  huckster  or  trader. 

My  grandfather  liked  a  good  horse.  He  loved  to 
draw  the  lines  over  a  team  that  trotted  up  into  the 
bits  as  if  they  enjoyed  it.  He  had  such  a  team  in  a 

69 


70  "Old  Bill" 

span  of  eleven-hundred  pound  mares,  full  sisters,  and 
well  matched  both  as  to  appearance  and  disposition. 
The  old  gentleman  said  they  were  Morgan  bred. 
Whether  they  were  or  not,  they  had  a  lot  of  warm 
blood  in  them.  He  raised  several  colts  from  these 
mares  by  light  horses,  but  none  of  them  had  either  the 
spirit  or  the  quality  of  their  dams.  One  year  a 
neighbor  brought  in  a  Percheron  horse,  a  rangy  fel 
low  weighing  about  seventeen  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  clean  of  limb,  and  with  plenty  of  life,  as  were 
most  of  the  earlier  horses  of  that  breed,  and  grand 
father  bred  these  mares  to  him.  The  colts  foaled  the 
next  spring,  developed  into  a  fine  span,  weighing 
about  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  each,  sound  as 
nuts,  willing  workers  and  free  movers.  Grand 
father  gave  this  team  to  my  father  the  spring  he 
started  to  farm  for  himself.  They  were  then  three 
years  old,  and  one  of  them  was  Old  Bill. 

In  those  days  the  young  farmer's  capital  was  not 
very  large:  a  team  of  horses,  a  cow,  two  or  three 
pigs,  and  a  few  farm  implements,  the  horses  being  by 
far  the  most  important  part  of  it.  I  shall  not  try 
to  tell  of  the  part  these  horses  played  in  helping 
father  win  out.  They  were  never  sick;  they  were 
always  ready  for  work.  And  well  do  I  remember 
father's  grief  when  Bill's  mate  slipped  on  the  ice  in 
the  barnyard  one  cold  winter  day  and  had  to  be 
shot.  It  was  that  evening  that  my  father  talked  of 


Henry  C.  Wallace  71 

the  important  part  a  good  horse  plays  in  the  life  of 
a  farmer,  and  gave  us  a  little  lecture  on  the  treatment 
of  horses  and  other  animals.  I  was  but  a  lad  of  ten 
at  that  time,  but  something  father  said,  or  the  way 
he  said  it,  made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  and  from 
that  time  forward  I  looked  upon  horses  as  my  friends 
and  treated  them  as  such.  What  a  fine  thing  it 
would  be  if  all  parents  would  teach  the  youngsters 
at  an  early  age  the  right  way  to  treat  our  dumb 
animals. 

Bill  was  already  "  Old  Bill "  when  he  became  mine. 
He  was  four  years  older  than  I  when  we  started 
courting  together,  and  my  success  must  have  been  due 
in  large  part  to  his  age  and  experience.  We  had  but 
a  mile  and  a  half  to  go,  and  of  a  summer  evening 
Bill  would  trot  this  off  at  a  pace  equal  to  a  much 
younger  horse.  When  the  girl  of  my  affection  was 
snugly  seated  in  the  buggy,  he  would  move  off  briskly 
for  half  a  mile,  after  which  he  dropped  to  a  dignified 
walk,  understanding  full  well  the  importance  of  the 
business  in  hand.  He  knew  where  it  was  safe  to 
leave  the  beaten  track  and  walk  quietly  along  the 
turf  at  the  side,  and  he  had  a  positive  genius  for 
finding  nice  shady  places  where  he  could  browse  the 
overhanging  branches,  looking  back  once  in  a  while 
to  see  that  everything  was  going  along  as  it  should  be. 
I  suppose  I  am  old-fashioned,  but  I  don't  see  how  a 
really  first-class  job  of  courting  can  be  done  without 


72  "Old  Bill" 

such  a  horse  as  Old  Bill.  He  seemed  to  take  just 
about  as  much  interest  in  the  matter  as  I  did.  One 
night  Jennie  brought  out  a  couple  of  lumps  of  sugar 
for  him  (a  hopeful  sign  to  me,  by  the  way),  and 
after  that  there  was  no  time  lost  in  getting  to  her 
house,  where  Bill  very  promptly  announced  our 
arrival  by  two  or  three  nickers. 

One  time  I  jokingly  said  to  my  wife  that  evidently 
she  married  Bill  as  much  as  she  did  me.  That 
remark  was  a  mistake.  She  admitted  it  more  cheer 
fully  than  seemed  necessary,  and  on  sundry  occasions 
afterward  made  free  to  remind  me  of  it.  Sometimes 
she  drew  comparisons  to  my  discredit,  and  if  Old 
Bill  could  have  understood  them,  he  would  have 
enjoyed  a  real  horse  laugh.  Jennie  always  said  Bill 
knew  more  than  some  real  folks. 

After  the  wedding,  Old  Bill  took  us  on  our  honey 
moon  trip  —  not  a  very  long  one,  you  may  be  sure 
—  and  the  three  of  us  settled  down  to  the  steady 
grind  of  farm  life.  We  asked  nothing  hard  of  Old 
Bill,  but  he  helped  chore  around,  and  took  Jennie 
safely  where  she  wanted  to  go.  I  felt  perfectly  at 
ease  when  she  was  driving  him.  I  wish  I  had  a 
picture  of  the  three  of  them  when  she  brought  out 
the  boy  to  show  to  Old  Bill.  I  can  close  my  eyes 
and  see  her  standing  in  front  of  the  old  horse,  with 
the  boy  cuddled  up  in  a  blanket  in  her  arms.  I  can 
see  the  proud  light  in  her  eyes,  and  I  can  see  Old 


Henry  C.  Wallace  73 

Bill's  sensitive  upper  lip  nuzzling  at  the  blanket.  He 
evidently  understood  Jennie  perfectly,  and  seemed 
just  as  proud  as  she  was. 

The  youngster  learned  to  ride  Old  Bill  at  the  age 
most  children  are  riding  broomsticks.  Jennie  used 
to  put  him  on  Old  Bill's  back  and  lead  him  around, 
but  Old  Bill  seemed  so  careful  that  before  a  great 
while  she  would  trust  him  alone  with  the  boy  in  the 
front  yard,  she  sitting  on  the  porch.  I  remember 
a  scare  I  had  one  summer  evening.  Old  Bill  did  not 
have  much  hair  left  on  his  withers,  but  he  had  a  long 
mane  lock  just  in  front  of  the  collar  mark,  and  the 
youngster  held  onto  this.  I  was  walking  up  toward 
the  house,  where  Bill  was  marching  the  youngster 
around  in  front,  Jennie  sitting  on  the  porch.  Evi 
dently  a  botfly  was  bothering  Bill's  front  legs,  for  he 
threw  his  head  down  quickly,  whereupon  the  young 
ster,  holding  tightly  to  this  mane  lock,  slid  down  his 
neck  and  flopped  to  the  ground.  You  may  be  sure 
I  got  there  in  a  hurry,  almost  as  quickly  as  Jennie, 
who  was  but  a  few  steps  away,  calling  as  I  ran: 
"Did  he  step  on  him?"  You  should  have  seen  the 
look  of  scorn  Jennie  gave  me.  Such  an  insult  to  Old 
Bill  deserved  no  answer.  The  old  horse  seemed  as 
much  concerned  as  we  were  and  Jennie  promptly 
replaced  the  boy  on  his  back  and  the  ride  was 
resumed,  with  me  relegated  to  the  corner  of  the  porch 
in  disgrace.  As  if  Old  Bill  would  hurt  her  boy! 


74  "Old  Bill" 

Old  Bill's  later  years  were  full  of  contentment  and 
happiness,  if  I  know  what  constitutes  horse  happiness. 
In  the  winter  he  had  the  best  corner  in  the  stable. 
In  the  summer  he  was  the  autocrat  of  the  small  pas 
ture  where  we  kept  the  colts.  He  taught  the  boy  to 
ride  properly  and  with  due  respect  for  his  steed.  He 
would  give  him  a  gallop  now  and  then,  but  as  a  rule 
he  insisted  upon  a  dignified  walk,  and  if  the  youngster 
armed  himself  with  a  switch  and  tried  to  have  his 
way  about  it,  the  old  fellow  would  quickly  show  who 
was  boss  by  nipping  his  little  legs  just  hard  enough 
to  serve  as  a  warning  of  what  he  could  do.  „ 

Bill  had  a  lot  of  fun  with  the  mares  and  colts.  We 
never  allowed  the  colts  to  follow  the  mares  in  the 
fields,  but  kept  them  in  the  five-acre  pasture  with  Bill 
for  company.  At  noon,  we  would  lead  the  mares  in 
after  they  had  cooled  off,  and  let  the  colts  suck,  and 
at  night  we  turned  the  mares  into  the  pasture  with 
them.  Bill  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor.  He  would 
fool  around  until  the  colts  had  finished,  and  then 
gallop  off  with  all  the  colts  in  full  tilt  after  him. 
Naturally  the  mares  resented  this.  They  followed 
around  in  great  indignation,  but  it  did  them  no  good. 
We  used  to  walk  over  to  the  pasture  fence  and  watch 
this  little  byplay,  and  I  think  Bill  enjoyed  having 
us  there,  for  he  kept  up  the  fun  as  long  as  we  would 
watch.  He  surely  was  not  popular  with  the  mares. 
They  regarded  him  about  as  the  proud  mother 


Henry  C.  Wallace  75 

regards  grandfather  when  he  entices  away  her  darling 
boy  and  teaches  him  tricks  of  which  she  does  not 
approve. 

Although  Bill  took  delight  in  teaching  the  colts 
mean  little  tricks  during  their  days  of  irresponsibility, 
when  they  reached  the  proper  age  he  enjoyed  the  part 
he  had  to  play  in  their  training  with  a  grim  satisfac 
tion.  For  more  than  twenty-five  years  he  was  our 
main  reliance  in  breaking  the  colts  to  work.  It  was 
amusing  to  watch  a  colt  the  first  time  he  was  har 
nessed  and  hooked  up  to  the  wagon  alongside  Bill, 
his  halter  strap  being  tied  back  to  the  hames  on 
Bill's  collar. 

Our  colts  were  always  handled  more  or  less  from 
infancy,  and  we  had  little  trouble  in  harnessing  them. 
When  led  out  to  the  wagon  with  Bill,  the  colt  invari 
ably  assumed  he  was  out  for  a  good  time.  But  the 
Bill  he  found  now  was  not  the  Bill  he  had  known 
in  the  pasture,  and  he  very  quickly  learned  that  he 
was  in  for  real  business. 

Bill  was  a  very  strict  disciplinarian ;  he  tolerated  no 
familiarities;  with  his  teeth  he  promptly  suppressed 
any  undue  exuberance  of  spirit;  he  was  kind  but  firm. 
As  he  grew  older,  he  would  lose  patience  now  and 
then  with  the  colts  that  persisted  in  their  unruly  ways. 
When  they  lunged  forward,  he  settled  back  against 
their  plunges  with  a  bored  air,  as  much  as  to  say: 
"  Take  it  easy,  my  young  friend ;  you  surely  don't 


76  "Old  Bill" 

think  you  can  run  away  with  Old  Bill! "  When  they 
sulked,  he  pulled  them  along  for  a  bit.  But  if  they 
continued  obstreperous  he  turned  upon  them  with  his 
teeth  in  an  almost  savage  manner,  and  the  way  he 
would  bring  them  out  of  the  sulky  spell  was  a  joy 
to  see. 

Finally,  when  the  tired  and  bewildered  colt  had 
settled  down  to  an  orderly  walk,  and  had  learned  to 
respond  to  the  guiding  reins,  Bill  would  reward  him 
with  a  caress  on  the  neck  and  other  evidences  of  his 
esteem. 

Old  Bill  knew  the  game  thoroughly,  and  was 
invaluable  in  this  work  of  training  the  young  ones. 
But  after  the  first  round  at  the  wagon  with  him,  the 
colts  always  seemed  to  feel  as  if  they  had  lost  a  boon 
companion;  they  kept  their  friendship  for  him,  but 
they  maintained  a  very  respectful  attitude,  and  never 
after  took  liberties  unless  assured  by  his  manner  that 
they  would  be  tolerated. 

I  got  a  collie  dog  for  the  youngster  when  he  was 
about  three  years  old.  When  he  was  riding  Old 
Bill,  Jack  would  rush  back  and  forth,  in  front  and 
behind,  barking  joyously.  Old  Bill  disliked  such 
frivolity.  To  him  it  was  a  serious  occasion.  I  think 
he  never  forgot  the  time  the  boy  fell  off,  for  nothing 
could  tempt  him  out  of  a  steady  walk  until  the  young 
ster  got  to  an  age  when  his  seat  was  reasonably 
secure.  When  the  ride  was  over,  Old  Bill  would  lay 


Henry  C.  Wallace 

back  his  ears  and  go  after  Jack  so  viciously  that  the 
collie  would  seek  refuge  under  the  porch.  Except 
when  the  boy  was  about,  however,  Old  Bill  and  Jack 
were  good  friends,  and  in  very  cold  weather  Jack 
would  beg  a  place  in  Bill's  stall,  curling  up  between 
his  legs,  to  the  apparent  satisfaction  of  both.  There 
was  a  very  real  friendship  between  them,  but  just  as 
real  jealousy  for  the  favors  of  the  little  fellow.  They 
were  much  like  human  beings  in  this  respect. 

Until  the  last  year  of  his  life  Bill  was  a  most  useful 
member  of  the  family.  Jennie  liked  a  good  garden 
and  used  to  say  before  we  were  married  that  when 
we  had  our  own  home,  she  would  have  a  garden  that 
was  a  garden,  and  that  she  did  not  propose  to  wear 
herself  out  with  a  hoe  as  her  mother  had  done.  She 
laid  out  her  garden  in  a  long,  narrow  strip  of  ground 
between  the  pasture  and  the  windbreak,  just  back  of 
the  house,  and  with  Bill's  help  she  had  the  garden 
she  talked  about.  Bill  plowed  the  ground  and  culti 
vated  it,  and  the  care  with  which  he  walked  the  long 
narrow  rows  was  astonishing.  This  was  another 
place  where  he  did  not  want  to  be  bothered  with 
Jack.  He  was  willing  Jack  should  sit  at  one  end 
and  watch  the  proceedings,  but  he  must  keep  out  of 
the  way. 

During  the  school  season  Bill's  regular  job  was  to 
take  the  children  to  school,  a  mile  away.  They  rode 
him,  turning  him  loose  to  come  home  alone.  He 


78  "Old  Bill" 

learned  to  go  back  for  them  in  the  afternoon,  and  he 
delivered  them  at  the  porch  with  an  air  as  much  as 
to  say :  "  There  are  your  little  folks,  safe  and  sound, 
thanks  to  Old  Bill."  Jennie  always  met  him  with  an 
apple  or  a  lump  of  sugar.  She  and  Old  Bill  seemed 
to  be  in  partnership  in  about  everything  he  could 
have  a  part  in.  They  understood  each  other  per 
fectly,  and  I  don't  mind  confessing  now  that  once  in 
a  great  while  I  felt  rather  jealous  of  Old  Bill. 

Well,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  we  buried  Old 
Bill  to-day.  He  died  peacefully,  and,  as  we  say  of 
some  esteemed  citizen,  "  full  of  honors."  He  was 
buried  on  the  farm  he  helped  pay  for;  and,  foolish 
as  it  may  seem  to  some  folks,  before  long  a  modest 
stone  will  mark  his  last  resting  place.  And  some 
times,  of  a  summer  afternoon,  if  I  find  Jennie  sitting 
with  her  needlework  in  the  shade  of  the  big  oak  tree 
under  which  Old  Bill  rests,  I  will  know  that  tender 
memories  of  a  faithful  servant  are  being  woven  into 
her  neat  stitches. 


The  Recruit's  Story 

By  Frank  Luther  Mott 

Last  Sunday  afternoon  I  wandered  into  Smith 
Park  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the  fountain. 
It  was  a  fine  day.  The  sun  shone  warmly  and  I  was 
one  of  many  men  who  lounged  on  those  benches  and 
luxuriated  in  the  grateful  warmth  of  the  early  spring 
sunshine. 

Men  of  many  kinds  were  there.  There  were  a 
few  old  men,  but  many  were  young,  or  middle-aged. 
Unless  I  am  a  very  poor  observer,  not  a  few  of  them 
were  drifters. 

As  I  sat  there  I  watched  the  play  of  the  water 
falling  in  the  fountain.  I  observed  the  bronze  figures 
of  women  sitting  in  the  center,  musing  over  who 
knows  what  great  world  problem;  and  I  saw,  sur 
mounting  all,  the  towering  figure  of  a  soldier  of  the 
Civil  War.  There  he  stood  in  his  quiet  power  — 
apotheosis  of  the  common  soldier  in  the  war  for  the 
Union.  He  wore  the  great-coat  and  military  cape  of 
the  old  uniform.  He  stood  at  ease,  his  left  foot 
advanced,  and  the  butt  of  his  gun  resting  on  the 
ground  in  front  of  him,  while  he  held  the  gun-barrel 

79 


80  The  Recruit's  Story 

with  his  left  hand  and  rested  his  forearm  on  the 
muzzle.  He  gazed  a  little  past  me,  steadfastly, 
toward  a  corner  of  the  park.  On  his  face  was  the 
look  of  the  man  who  is  ready  —  the  man  undaunted 
by  any  emergency  —  the  man  unafraid  in  the  quiet 
strength  of  soul  and  body. 

"  He  it  was,"  I  reflected,  "  who  leaped  to  the  colors 
when  Father  Abraham  called,  and  by  the  might  of 
his  loyalty  and  sacrifice  saved  his  country  in  the 
hour  of  her  greatest  need." 

Glancing  across  the  park,  I  saw  a  poster  glaring 
from   the   great   window  of   a   salesroom.      I   could 
make  out  three  words,  printed  in  giant  type : 
MEN     WANTED     NOW! 

Again  I  looked  about  me  at  the  men  lounging,  as 
I  was  lounging,  there  on  the  benches  in  the  sunlight, 
some  of  them  asleep.  I  too  felt  the  soporific  influence 
of  the  May  sun,  and  might  soon  have  lapsed  into 
unconsciousness  myself  had  it  not  been  for  a  strange 
thing  that  happened  just  then. 

I  saw  the  Union  soldier  turn  his  head  a  little  and 
look  directly  at  me. 

I  am  not  given  to  illusions,  being  generally  consid 
ered  a  matter-of-fact  young  man.  But,  as  I  live, 
I  saw  that  Union  soldier  turn  his  head!  And  more 
than  that,  I  knew  just  why  he  did  it. 

I  had  read  the  papers,  and  knew  my  country's 
need.  I  had  read  the  flaming  posters  calling  for  men 


Frank  Luther  Mott  81 

to  enlist  in  her  armies.  I  had  read  President  Wilson's 
classic-to-be  concerning  America's  purpose  in  our 
greatest  war  for  liberty.  I  had  not  meant  to  be  a 
slacker;  but,  some  way,  I  had  not  been  strongly 
moved.  I  was  letting  the  other  fellow  fill  up  the 
ranks,  intending  hazily  to  rally  to  the  colors  myself 
when  the  need  seemed  greater.  Even  now,  I  was 
inclined  to  argue  the  matter. 

I  leaned  back  in  my  seat  and  said,  in  a  conversa 
tional  tone: 

"  Now  look  here,  Mr.  Union  Soldier,  the  need  was 
greater  when  you  joined  the  colors.  The  Union  was 
threatened;  the  very  existence  of  the  nation  was  at 
hazard.  I  too  will  answer  the  call  if  worse  comes  to 
worst  in  this  war." 

'  Young  man,"  replied  the  soldier,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  mine  and  his  voice  deep  and  calm,  "  young  man, 
your  country's  call  is  your  country's  call.  This  time 
it  is  no  question  of  union;  thank  God,  the  states 
stand  indivisible  forever.  But  this  time  the  crisis 
is  even  greater,  the  need  of  vision  and  sacrifice  even 
more  vital.  This  time  the  liberty,  not  of  the  black 
man  alone,  but  of  the  world,  is  in  the  balance.  Are 
you  deaf  to  the  call?" 

"  But  listen,"  I  answered.  "  This  is  not  our  war. 
Nobody  has  crossed  the  sea  to  strike  us." 

"Have  they  not?"  he  countered.  "By  spies,  by 
intrigue,  by  a  treacherous  diplomacy,  by  an  unscru- 


82  The  Recruit's  Story 

pulous  policy  of  world  subjugation,  the  enemy  has 
invaded  our  shores.  Yet  it  is  not  that  alone.  As  I 
have  stood  here,  I  have  heard  the  cries  of  the  people 
of  ravished  Belgium;  I  have  heard  the  despairing 
screams  of  men  and  women  sinking  in  watery  graves ; 
the  wails  of  perishing  Armenia  assail  my  ears.  Do 
you  say  it  is  not  our  war?  It  is!  Just  as  the  fate 
of  the  black  man  touched  the  hearts  of  us  North 
erners,  just  as  the  misfortune  of  the  traveler  to 
Jericho  touched  the  heart  of  the  Samaritan,  just  as 
the  suffering  Christ  on  the  cross  has  touched  the 
heart  of  the  world  —  just  so  must  the  woeful  cry  of 
a  world  perishing  to-day  touch  the  heart  of  America 
.  And  yet  I  look  about  me  here!  These  men 
drowsing  in  the  sunshine !  Are  these  Americans  ? 
From  the  field  I  rushed  when  Lincoln  called,  scarcely 
pausing  to  bid  my  mother  good-bye;  and  I  braved 
cold,  and  heat,  and  sickness,  and  privation,  and  ter 
rors  by  day  and  night,  and  rain  of  shot  and  shell, 
and  wounds  and  suffering  and  death  —  all  because 
my  country  called !  " 

As  he  spoke  his  voice  rose  to  a  commanding 
resonance.  He  raised  his  right  arm  from  the  muzzle 
of  the  gun  where  it  had  rested  —  raised  it  high  in 
impassioned  appeal.  At  last  I  was  moved;  tears  ran 
down  my  cheeks. 

I  started  —  awoke.  I  had  been  asleep,  and  the 
water  from  the  fountain  was  blowing  in  my  face. 


Frank  Luther  Mott  83 

But  was  it  the  spray  from  the  fountain  alone  that 
made  my  cheeks  wet? 

I  looked  up  at  the  bronze  figure  surmounting  the 
fountain.  There  the  soldier  stood  at  rest,  left  foot 
advanced,  arm  resting  on  his  gun.  His  eyes  looked 
steadfastly  toward  the  corner  of  the  park.  But  did 

I  not  see  a  glow  of  passion  on  that  bronze  face a 

passion  for  the  Liberty  of  the  World? 

I  turned  to  my  neighbor  on  the  bench  at  my  left. 
His  eyes  were  half  shut,  drowsily. 

"  Pardon  me,  brother,"  I  said.  "  Can  you  tell  me 
where  the  nearest  recruiting  station  is  located  ?  " 


The  Happiest  Man  in  I-o-way 

By  Rupert  Hughes 

Jes'  down  the  road  a  piece,  'ith  the  dust  so  deep 

It  teched  the  bay  mare's  fetlocks;  an'  the  sun 
So  b'ilin'  hot,  the  pewees  dassn't  peep; 

Seemed  like  midsummer  'fore  the  spring's  begun! 
An'  me  plumb  beat  an'  good-fer-nothin'-like 

An'  awful  lonedsome  fer  a  sight  o'  you     .     .     . 
I  come  to  that  big  locus'  by  the  pike, 

An'  she  was  all  in  bloom,  an'  trembly,  too, 
With  breezes  like  drug-store  perfumery. 

I  stood  up  in  my  stirrups,  with  my  head 
So  deep  in  flowers  they  almost  smothered  me. 

I  kind  o'  liked  to  think  that  I  was  dead     .     .     . 
An'  if  I  hed  'a'  died  like  that  to-day, 

I'd  'a'  be'n  the  happiest  man  in  I-o-way. 

For  whut's  the  us't  o'  goin'  on  like  this? 

Your  pa  not  'lowin  me  around  the  place     .     .     . 
Well,  fust  I  knowed,  I'd  give  them  blooms  a  kiss; 

They  tasted  like  Good-Night  on  your  white  face. 
I  reached  my  arms  out  wide,  an'  hugged  'em  —  say, 

I  dreamp'  your  little  heart  was  hammerin'  me ! 

84 


Rupert  Hughes  85 

I  broke  this  branch  off  for  a  love-bo'quet ; 

'F  I'd  be'n  a  giant,  I'd  'a'  plucked  the  tree! 
The  blooms  is  kind  o'  dusty  from  the  road, 

But  you  won't  mind.     And,  as  the  feller  said, 
"  When  this  you  see  remember  me  " — I  knowed 

Another  poem;  but  I've  lost  my  head 
From  seem'  you !     'Bout  all  that  I  kin  say 

Is  —  "  I'm  the  happiest  man  in  I-o-way." 

Well,  comin'  'long  the  road  I  seen  your  ma 

Drive  by  to  town  —  she  didn't  speak  to  me ! 
An'  in  the  farthest  field  I  seen  your  pa 

At  his  spring-plowin',  like  I'd  ought  to  be. 
But,  knowin'  you'd  be  here  all  by  yourself, 

I  hed  to  come  —  for  now's  our  livin'  chance. 
Take  off  yer  apern,  leave  things  on  the  shelf  — 

Our  preacher  needs  what  th'  feller  calls  "  romance." 
Ain't  got  no  red-wheeled  buggy;  but  the  mare 

Will  carry  double,  like  we've  trained  her  to. 
Jes'  put  a  locus'-blossom  in  your  hair 

An'  let's  ride  straight  to  heaven  —  me  an'  you ! 
I'll  build  y'  a  little  house,  an'  folks  '11  say : 

"  There  lives  the  happiest  pair  in  I-o-way." 


The  Captured  Dream 

By  Octave  Thanet 

Somers  rode  slowly  over  the  low  Iowa  hills,  fitting 
an  air  in  his  mind  to  Andrew  Lang's  dainty  verses. 
Presently,  being  quite  alone  on  the  country  road,  he 
began  to  sing: 

"  In  dreams  doth  he  behold  her, 
Still  fair  and  kind  and  young." 

The  gentle  strain  of  melancholy  and  baffled  desire 
faded  into  silence,  but  the  young  man's  thoughts 
pursued  it.  A  memory  of  his  own  that  sometimes 
stung  him,  sometimes  plaintively  caressed  him,  stirred 
in  his  heart.  "I  am  afraid  you  hit  it,  Andy,"  he 
muttered,  "  and  I  should  have  found  it  only  a  dream 
had  I  won." 

At  thirty  Somers  imagined  himself  mighty  cynical. 
He  consorted  with  daring  critics,  and  believed  the 
worst  both  of  art  and  letters.  He  was  making  cam 
paign  cartoons  for  a  daily  journal  instead  of  painting 
the  picture  of  the  future;  the  panic  of  '93  had 
stripped  him  of  his  little  fortune,  and  his  sweetheart 
had  refused  to  marry  him.  Therefore  he  said 
incessantly  in  the  language  of  Job,  "  I  do  well  to  be 
angry." 

86 


Octave  Thanet  87 

The  rubber  tires  revolved  more  slowly  as  his  eyes 
turned  from  the  wayside  to  the  smiling  hills.  The 
corn  ears  were  sheathed  in  silvery  yellow,  but  the 
afternoon  sun  jewelled  the  green  pastures,  fresh  as 
in  May,  for  rain  had  fallen  in  the  morning,  and 
maples,  oaks  and  elms  blended  exquisite  gradations 
of  color  and  shade  here  and  there  among  the  open 
fields.  Long  rows  of  poplars  recalled  France  to 
Somers  and  he  sighed.  "  These  houses  are  all  com 
fortable  and  all  ugly,"  thought  the  artist.  "  I  never 
saw  anything  less  picturesque.  The  life  hasn't  even 
the  dismal  interest  of  poverty  and  revolt,  for  they 
are  all  beastly  prosperous;  and  one  of  the  farmers 
has  offered  me  a  hundred  dollars  and  my  expenses 
to  come  here  and  make  a  pastel  of  his  wife.  And 
I  have  taken  the  offer  because  I  want  to  pay  my  board 
bill  and  buy  a  second-hand  bicycle.  The  chances  are 
he  is  after  something  like  a  colored  photograph, 
something  slick  and  smooth,  and  every  hair  painted 
—  Oh,  Lord !  But  I  have  to  have  the  money ;  and  I 
won't  sign  the  cursed  thing.  What  does  he  want  it 
for  though?  I  wonder,  did  he  ever  know  love's 
dream?  Dream?  It's  all  a  dream  —  a  mirage  of  the 
senses  or  the  fancy.  Confound  it,  why  need  I  be 
harking  back  to  it  ?  I  must  be  near  his  house.  House 
near  the  corner,  they  said,  where  the  roads  cross. 
Ugh!  How  it  jumps  at  the  eyes." 

The  house  before  him  was  yellow  with  pea-green 


88  The  Captured  Dream 

blinds;  the  great  barns  were  Indian  red;  the  yard  a 
riot  of  color  from  blooming  flowers. 

Somers  wheeled  up  to  the  gate  and  asked  of  the 
old  man  who  was  leaning  upon  the  fence  where  Mr. 
Gates  lived. 

"  Here/'  said  the  old  man,  not  removing  his  elbows 
from  the  fence  bar. 

"And,  may  I  ask,  are  you  Mr.  Gates?"  said 
Somers. 

"  Yes,  sir.  But  if  you're  the  young  man  was 
round  selling  '  Mother,  Home  and  Heaven/  and  going 
to  call  again  to  see  if  we  liked  it,  we  don't  want  it. 
My  wife  can't  read  and  we're  taking  a  Chicago  paper 
now,  and  ain't  got  any  time." 

Somers  smiled.  "  I'm  not  selling  anything  but 
pictures,"  said  he,  "  and  I  believe  you  want  me  to 
make  one  for  you." 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Somers,  F.  J.  S.  ?  "  cried  the  farmer, 
his  face  lighting  in  a  surprising  manner.  "  Well, 
I'm  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  My  wife  said  you'd  come 
this  afternoon  and  I  wouldn't  believe  her.  I'm  always 
caught  when  I  don't  believe  my  wife.  Come  right 
in.  Oh,  did  you  bring  your  tools  with  you?" 

He  guided  Somers  into  the  house  and  into  a  room 
so  dark  that  he  stumbled. 

u  There's  the  sofy;  set  down,"  said  Gates,  who 
seemed  full  of  hospitable  cheer.  "  I'll  get  a  blind 
open.  Girl's  gone  to  the  fair  and  Mother's  setting 


Octave  Thanet  89 

out  on  the  back  piazza,  listening  to  the  noises  on  the 
road.  She's  all  ready.  Make  yourself  to  home. 
Pastel  like  them  pictures  on  the  wall's  what  I  want. 
My  daughter  done  them."  His  tone  changed  on  the 
last  sentence,  but  Somers  did  not  notice  it;  he  was 
drinking  in  the  details  of  the  room  to  describe  them 
afterwards  to  his  sympathizing  friends  in  Chicago. 
"  What  a  chamber  of  horrors,"  he  thought,  "  and 
one  can  see  he  is  proud  of  it."  The  carpet  was  soft 
to  the  foot,  covered  with  a  jungle  of  flowers  and 
green  leaves  —  the  pattern  of  carpet  which  fashion 
leaves  behind  for  disappointed  salesmen  to  mark  lower 
and  lower  until  it  shall  be  pushed  into  the  ranks  of 
shopworn  bargains.  The  cheap  paper  on  the  wall 
was  delicately  tinted,  but  this  boon  came  plainly 
from  the  designers,  and  not  the  taste  of  the  buyer, 
since  there  was  a  simply  terrible  chair  that  swung 
by  machinery,  and  had  four  brilliant  hues  of  plush 
to  vex  the  eye,  besides  a  paroxysm  of  embroidery 
and  lace  to  which  was  still  attached  the  red  ticket  of 
the  county  fair.  More  embroidery  figured  on  the 
cabinet  organ  and  two  tables,  and  another  red  ticket 
peeped  coyly  from  under  the  ornate  frame  of  a  pastel 
landscape  displaying  every  natural  beauty  —  forest, 
mountain,  sunlit  lake,  and  meadow  —  at  their  bluest 
and  greenest.  There  were  three  other  pictures  in  the 
room,  two  yery  large  colored  photographs  of  a  lad 
of  twelve  and  of  a  pretty  girl  who  might  be  sixteen, 


90  The  Captured  Dream 

in  a  white  gown  with  a  roll  of  parchment  in  her 
hand  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon;  and  the  photograph 
of  a  cross  of  flowers. 

The  girl's  dark,  wistful,  timid  eyes  seemed  to  fol 
low  the  young  artist  as  he  walked  about  the  room. 
They  appealed  to  him.  "  Poor  little  girl,"  he  thought, 
"  to  have  to  live  here."  Then  he  heard  a  dragging 
footfall,  and  there  entered  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
She  was  a  tall  woman  who  stooped.  Her  hair  was 
gray  and  scanty,  and  so  ill-arranged  on  the  top  of 
her  head  that  the  mournful  tonsure  of  age  showed 
under  the  false  gray  braid.  She  was  thin  with  the 
gaunt  thinness  of  years  and  toil,  not  the  poetic, 
appealing  slenderness  of  youth.  She  had  attired  her 
self  for  the  picture  in  a  black  silken  gown,  spark 
ling  with  jet  that  tinkled  as  she  moved;  the  harsh, 
black,  bristling  line  at  the  neck  defined  her  withered 
throat  brutally.  Yet  Somer's  sneer  was  transient. 
He  was  struck  by  two  things  —  the  woman  was 
blind,  and  she  had  once  worn  a  face  like  that  of  the 
pretty  girl.  With  a  sensation  of  pity  he  recalled 
Andrew  Lang's  verses;  inaudibly,  while  she  greeted 
him  he  was  repeating: 

"  Who  watches  day  by  day 

The  dust  of  time  that  stains  her, 

The  griefs  that  leave  her  gray, 
The  flesh  that  still  enchains  her, 

Whose  grace  has  passed  away." 


Octave  Thanet  91 

Her  eyes  were  closed  but  she  came  straight  toward 
him,  holding  out  her  hand.  It  was  her  left  hand 
that  was  extended;  her  right  closed  over  the  top  of 
a  cane,  and  this  added  to  the  impression  of  decrepi 
tude  conveyed  by  her  whole  presence.  She  spoke  in 
a  gentle,  monotonous,  pleasant  voice.  "  I  guess  this 
is  Mr.  Somers,  the  artist.  I  feel  —  we  feel  very  glad 
to  have  the  honor  of  meeting  you,  sir." 

No  one  had  ever  felt  honored  to  meet  Somers 
before.  He  thought  how  much  refinement  and  sad 
ness  were  in  a  blind  woman's  face.  In  his  most 
deferential  manner  he  proffered  her  a  chair.  "  I 
presume  I  am  to  paint  you,  madam?"  he  said. 

She  blushed  faintly.  "  Ain't  it  rediculous  ?  "  she 
apologized.  "  But  Mr.  Gates  will  have  it.  He  has 
been  at  me  to  have  somebody  paint  a  picture  of  me 
ever  since  I  had  my  photograph  taken.  It  was  a  big 
picture  and  most  folks  said  it  was  real  good,  though 
not  flattering;  but  he  wouldn't  hang  it.  He  took  it 
off  and  I  don't  know  what  he  did  do  to  it.  '  I  want 
a  real  artist  to  paint  you,  Mother/  he  said.  I  guess 
if  Kitty  had  lived  she'd  have  suited  him,  though  she 
was  all  for  landscape;  never  did  much  figures.  You 
noticed  her  work  in  this  room,  ain't  you  —  on  the 
table  and  chair  and  organ  —  art  needlework  ?  Kitty 
could  do  anything.  She  took  six  prizes  at  the  county 
fair;  two  of  'em  come  in  after  she  was  in  her  last 
sickness.  She  was  so  pleased  that  she  had  the  picture 


92  The  Captured  Dream 

—  that's  the  picture  right  above  the  sofy ;  it's  a  pastel 

—  and  the  tidy,  I  mean  the  art  needle  work  —  put 
on  her  bed,  and  she  looked  at  them  the  longest  while. 
Her  paw  would  never  let  the  tickets  be  took  off." 
She  reached  forth  her  hand  to  the  chair  near  her  and 
felt  the  ticket,  stroking  it  absently,  her  chin  quiver 
ing  a  little,  while  her  lips  smiled.     "  Mr.  Gates  was 
thinking,"  she  said,  "  that  maybe  you'd  paint  a  head 
of  me  —  pastel  like  that  landscape  —  that's  why  he 
likes  pastel  so.     And  he  was  thinking  if  —  if  maybe 

—  my  eyes  was  jest  like  Kitty's  when  we  were  mar 
ried —  if  you  would  put  in  eyes,  he  would  be  awful 
much  obliged  and  be  willing  to  pay  extra  if  neces 
sary.     Would  it  be  hard  ?  " 

Somers  dissembled  a  great  dismay.  "  Certainly 
not,"  said  he,  rather  dryly;  and  he  was  ashamed  of 
himself  at  the  sensitive  flutter  in  the  old  features. 

"Of  course  I  know,"  she  said,  in  a  different  tone 
than  she  had  used  before,  "  I  understand  how  comical 
it  must  seem  to  a  young  man  to  have  to  draw  an 
old  woman's  picture;  but  it  ain't  comical  to  my  hus 
band.  He  wants  it  very  much.  He's  the  kindest 
man  that  ever  lived,  to  me,  caring  for  me  all  the 
time.  He's  got  me  that  organ  —  me  that  can't  play 
a  note,  and  never  could  —  just  because  I  love  to  hear 
music,  and  sometimes  if  we  have  an  instrument, 
the  neighbors  will  come  in,  especially  Hattie  Knight, 
who  used  to  know  Kittie,  and  is  a  splendid  performer; 


Octave  Thanet  93 

she  comes  and  plays  and  sings.  It  is  a  comfort  to 
me.  And  though  I  guess  you  young  folks  can't 
understand  it,  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  him  to  have  a 
picture  of  me.  I  mistrusted  you'd  be  thinking  it 
comical,  and  I  hurried  to  come  in  and  speak  to  you, 
lest,  not  meaning  anything,  you  might,  just  by  chance, 
let  fall  something  might  hurt  his  feelings  —  like  you 
thought  it  queer  or  some  sech  thing.  And  he  thinks 
so  much  of  you,  and  having  you  here,  that  I  couldn't 
bear  there'd  be  any  mistake." 

"  Surely  it  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
that  he  should  want  a  portrait  of  you,"  Somers 
hastily  interrupted. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  she  answered  in  her  mild,  even  tones, 
"  but  it  mightn't  seem  so  to  young  folks.  Young 
folks  think  they  know  all  there  is  about  loving.  And 
it  is  very  sweet  and  nice  to  enjoy  things  together; 
and  you  don't  hardly  seem  to  be  in  the  world  at  all 
when  you're  courting,  your  feet  and  your  head  and 
your  heart  feel  so  light.  But  they  don't  know  what 
it  is  to  need  each  other?  It's  when  folks  suffer 
together  that  they  find  out  what  loving  is.  I  never 
knew  what  I  felt  towards  my  husband  till  I  lost  my 
first  baby;  and  I'd  wake  up  in  the  night  and  there'd 
be  no  cradle  there  —  and  he'd  comfort  me.  Do  you 
see  that  picture  under  the  photograph  of  the  cross?  " 

"  He's  a  pretty  boy,"  said  Somers. 

"  Yes,  sir.     He  was  drownded  in  the  river.     A  lot 


94  The  Captured  Dream 

of  boys  in  playing,  and  one  got  too  far,  and  Eddy, 
he  swum  out  to  help  him.  And  he  dumb  up  on 
Eddy  and  the  man  on  shore  didn't  get  there  in  time. 
He  was  a  real  good  boy  and  liked  to  play  home  with 
me  'most  as  well  as  with  the  boys.  Father  was  proud 
as  he  could  be  of  him,  though  he  wouldn't  let  on. 
That  cross  was  what  his  schoolmates  sent;  and 
teacher  she  cried  when  she  told  me  how  hard  Eddy 
was  trying  to  win  the  prize  to  please  his  pa.  Father 
and  I  went  through  that  together.  And  we  had  to 
change  all  the  things  we  used  to  talk  of  together, 
because  Eddy  was  always  in  them;  and  we  had  to 
try  not  to  let  each  other  see  how  our  hearts  were 
breaking,  and  not  shadder  Kitty's  life  by  letting  her 
see  how  we  missed  him.  Only  once  father  broke 
down;  it  was  when  he  give  Kitty  Eddy's  colt."  She 
stopped,  for  she  could  not  go  on. 

"  Don't  —  don't  distress  yourself,"  Somers  begged 
lamely.  His  cheeks  were  very  hot. 

"  It  don't  distress  me,"  she  answered,  "  only  for 
the  minnit;  I'm  always  thinking  of  Eddy  and  Kitty 
too.  Sometimes  I  think  it  was  harder  for  father 
when  his  girl  went  than  anything  else.  And  then 
my  blindness  and  my  rheumatism  come;  and  it 
seemed  he  was  trying  to  make  up  to  me  for  the 
daughter  and  the  son  I'd  lost,  and  be  all  to  once  to 
me.  He  has  been,  too.  And  do  you  think  that  two 
old  people  that  have  grown  old  together,  like  us,  and 


Octave  Thanet  95 

have  been  through  losses  like  that  —  do  you  think 
they  ain't  drawed  closer  and  kinder  and  tenderer  to 
each  other,  like  the  Lord  to  his  church?  Why,  I'm 
plain,  and  old  and  blind  and  crooked  —  but  he  don't 
know  it.  Now,  do  you  understand  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Somers,  "I  understand/' 

"  And  you'll  please  excuse  me  for  speaking  so  free ; 
it  was  only  so  father's  feelings  shouldn't  get  hurt 
by  noticing  maybe  a  look  like  you  wanted  to  laugh." 

"  God  knows  I  don't  want  to  laugh,"  Somers  burst 
in.  "  But  I'm  glad  you  spoke.  It  —  it  will  be  a 
better  picture.  Now  may  I  ask  you  something?  I 
want  you  to  let  me  dress  you  —  I  mean  put  something 
about  your  neck,  soft  and  white;  and  then  I  want 
to  make  two  sketches  of  you  —  one,  as  Mr.  Gates 
wishes,  the  head  alone;  the  other  of  you  sitting  in 
the  rustic  chair  outside." 

"  But  —  "  she  looked  troubled  —  "  it  will  be  so 
expensive;  and  I  know  it  will  be  foolish.  If  you'd 
just  the  same  —  " 

"  But  I  shouldn't ;  I  want  to  do  it.  And  it  will 
not  cost  you  anything.  A  hundred  dollars  will  repay 
me  well  enough.  I  wish  —  I  truly  wish  I  could 
afford  to  do  it  all  for  nothing." 

She  gasped.  "  A  hundred  dollars !  Oh,  it  ain't 
right.  That  was  why  he  wouldn't  buy  the  new  buggy. 
And  jest  for  a  picture  of  me."  But  suddenly  she 
flushed  like  a  girl  and  smiled. 


96  The  Captured  Dream 

At  this  instant  the  old  man,  immaculate  in  his 
heavy  black  suit  and  glossy  white  shirt,  appeared  in 
the  doorway  bearing  a  tray. 

"  Father,"  said  the  old  wife,  "  do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  you  are  going  to  pay  a  hundred  dollars  jest  for 
a  picture  of  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mother,  you  know  there's  no  fool  like  an 
old  fool,"  he  replied,  jocosely;  but  when  the  old  wife 
turned  her  sightless  face  toward  the  old  husband's 
voice  and  he  looked  at  her,  Somers  bowed  his  head. 

He  spent  the  afternoon  over  his  sketches.  Riding 
away  in  the  twilight,  he  knew  he  had  done  better 
work  than  he  had  ever  done  before  in  his  life,  slight 
as  its  form  might  be ;  nevertheless  he  was  not  thinking 
of  himself  at  all.  He  was  trying  to  shape  his  own 
vague  perception  that  the  show  of  dainty  thinking  and 
the  pomp  of  refinement  are  in  truth  amiable  and 
lovely  things,  yet  are  they  no  more  than  the  husks  of 
life;  not  only  under  them,  but  under  ungracious  and 
sordid  conditions,  may  be  the  human  semblance  of 
that  "  beauty  most  ancient,  beauty  most  new,"  that 
the  old  saint  found  too  late.  He  felt  the  elusive 
presence  of  something  in  love  higher  than  his  youth 
ful  dream;  stronger  than  passion,  fairer  than  delight. 
To  this  commonplace  man  and  woman  had  come  the 
deepest  gift  of  life. 

"  A  dream  ?  "  he  murmured.  "  Yes,  perhaps  he 
has  captured  it." 


"  DING  "  BY  WING 


Truth 

By  Carrie  Moss  Hawley 

The  archives  of  history  contain  wonderful  reve 
lations  of  the  growth  and  physical  development  of 
man.  Going  back  to  the  beginning  of  time,  when 
creation  donned  its  immortal  robe  of  life  and  nature 
gave  utterance  to  the  thought  that  nothing  perishes, 
we  follow  down  the  aisle  of  centuries  until  we  find 
ourselves  to-day  where  we  realize  that  thought  has 
become  the  most  powerful  factor  in  advancement. 
Gradations  are  everywhere,  yet  mental  processes  and 
volitions  take  control  of  the  wheel  of  progress  and 
guide  everything  with  majestic  power. 

The  mind,  as  we  commonly  think  of  it,  is  not  a 
safe  guide  unless  directed  by  wisdom.  So  we  appeal 
for  light  to  give  direction  to  the  ideas  or  conceptions 
that  filter  through  the  brain  from  the  all-holding 
universal  thought.  How  to  distinguish  true  from 
false  conceptions  is  the  labor  of  philosophy. 

Truth  may  be  tested  by  one  infallible  rule:  its 
power  to  construct.  You  may  see  it  forming  what 
may  terminate  in  evil,  and  doing  unmistakable  harm. 
Then  you  say:  How  can  this  be  truth  if  it  creates 

99 


100  Truth 

disaster?  But  all  that  is  created  does  not  act  one 
way.  There  is  the  gross  and  the  refined,  the  blem 
ished  and  the  perfect.  All  is  good  in  the  sense  that 
it  comes  from  a  perfect  law.  It  is  the  direction  crea 
tion  takes  that  determines  the  outcome. 

The  next  step  is  how  to  direct  truth  that  it  may 
produce  only  the  end  desired.  There  are  millions  of 
beings  on  this  sphere,  each  of  whom  has  the  same 
access  to  truth.  Many  of  these  do  not  even  know  of 
their  power  in  production,  and,  with  sensualized 
vision  which  has  not  been  renovated,  they  keep  on 
bringing  forth  that  which  another  class,  further 
advanced,  is  endeavoring  to  exterminate.  This  will 
continue  indefinitely,  for  there  will  always  be  growing 
souls  that  have  to  learn.  Since  what  appears  as  evil 
must  exist,  when  it  has  become  abhorrent  to  you  in 
all  its  forms,  your  privilege  and  power  is  to  convert 
all  that  comes  within  your  radius  into  what  you 
desire  it  to  be.  Minimize  your  fear  of  all  effects 
in  the  negative,  and  take  firm  hold  of  the  actual 
forces  and  mold  them  into  whatever  you  desire. 

Were  you  a  sculptor  and  had  a  piece  of  marble 
before  you,  you  would  not  feel  obliged  to  chisel  out 
of  it  a  cat,  because  a  cat  chanced  to  be  rubbing  her 
head  against  your  leg  in  a  friendly  way.  While  you 
would  be  conscious  of  the  cat  she  would  be  something 
outside  the  realm  of  your  perceptions  when  you 
struck  your  first  blow  upon  the  marble.  You  would 


Carrie  Moss  Hawley  101 

build  from  your  perceptions  that  have  been  brought 
to  the  foreground  by  your  conceptions  of  the 
valuable. 

Man  must  reach  a  certain  plane  in  his  development 
before  he  realizes  there  are  things  worthless  and 
things  of  worth,  and  that  he  may  possess  which  he 
will.  But  when  the  moral  milestone  is  passed  he  sees 
the  dawn  of  a  new  day  that  will  bring  him  his  hopes 
realized. 

Thus,  the  way  to  attain  truth  is  first  to  see  it 
from  the  vantage-point  that  comes  through  illumina 
tion;  then  realize  that  the  cosmic  world  possesses  all 
the  material  you  need  for  its  development.  What  sur 
rounds  you  that  does  not  appeal  to  you,  merely 
touches  and  draws  attention  to  its  existence,  need 
come  into  your  creation  no  more  than  the  cat  came 
into  the  artist's  production. 


Work 

By  Irving  N.  Brant 

Let  me  once  more  in  Druid   forest  wander, 
To  gain  its  legacy  of  ancient  lore; 
Make  me  its  prophet,  as  I  dreamed  of  yore, 
A  priest,  on  holy  mysteries  to  ponder. 
Lead  me  to  realms  of  quiet,  or  the  fonder 
Scenes  of  the  rising  sea's  unruly  roar. 
Or  turn  my  gaze  upon  the  vistaed  floor 
Of   quiet  valleys,   and  the  blue  haze  yonder 
On  the  opposing  hills.     Let  me  traverse 
The   shadows  of  man's  immemorial  mind, 
The  haunt  of  fear,  joy,  sorrow  and  despair, 
God-given  wonder  and  the  primal  curse. 
Within  the  throbbing  heart  of  humankind 
Give  me  my  work,  or  let  me  perish  there. 


102 


Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 

By  Virginia  H.  Reichard 

Along  in  the  early  nineties  as  I  was  traveling  in 
the  West,  selling  shoes,  I  left  the  train  at  the  little 
junction  of  Skywaw  and  surveyed  the  town.  I 
found  that  the  proverbial  hotel,  blacksmith  shop,  gen 
eral  store  and  a  handful  of  houses,  beside  the  depot, 
comprised  the  town. 

After  supper  at  the  hotel,  where  I  was  waited  upon 
by  the  landlord's  pretty  daughter,  I  asked  about  the 
storekeeper  across  the  way  and  found  to  my  surprise 
that  he  carried  about  a  ten  or  twelve  thousand  dollar 
general  stock  which  included  everything  from  a 
sheepskin  to  a  paper  of  needles.  The  farming  coun 
try  being  so  good,  it  was  no  wonder  that  this  man 
did  almost  as  big  a  business  as  many  others  in  much 
larger  towns,  so  the  daughter  told  me,  while  the  land 
lord  himself  chipped  in  with  a  question :  "  Why, 
don't  you  know  this  is  just  the  richest  spot  in  Wahoo 
County?  In  fact  the  ground  is  too  rich.  Just  think 
of  it  —  too  rich  to  grow  pumpkins." 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "can't  you  grow  pumpkins?" 

With  a  smile  of  confidence  that  his  joke  was 

103 


104         Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 

entirely  new  he  replied :  "  The  vines  grow  so  fast 
it  drags  them  over  the  ground  and  wears  them  out. 
Go  up  and  see  the  storekeeper  and  if  you  sell  him  you 
get  your  money  for  the  goods  sure  thing,  for  he  sells 
for  cash  only." 

I  picked  up  my  grips  and  started  to  see  my  man  at 
once;  found  him  standing  in  the  door  chewing  a  quid 
and  spitting  out  into  the  street  at  any  stray  chicken 
or  dog  that  chanced  to  wander  by.  As  he  stood  there 
indifferent,  expressionless,  he  looked  the  typical 
Westerner,  with  an  air  of  "  do  as  you  darn  please  " 
about  him;  pants  tucked  into  a  pair  of  boots  that 
were  run  over  and  worn  off  at  the  toe  in  a  peculiar 
way  that  would  indicate  to  a  shoeologist  that  he  was 
a  sharp,  keen  trader,  very  suspicious  of  strangers, 
hard  to  strike  a  trade  with  unless  he  could  see  a 
hundred  per  cent  in  it  for  himself.  In  early  days  he 
had  been  a  horse  trader  and  a  dealer  in  buffalo  hides, 
and  had  never  seen  the  time  when  he  couldn't  tell 
what  o'clock  it  was  better  by  the  sun  than  by  a 
watch;  a  hard  man  to  approach  on  the  shoe  subject 
as  his  mind  didn't  seem  to  hover  around  shoes. 

There  must  have  been  a  depression  in  his  skull 
where  his  bump  of  order  was  supposed  to  be,  as  from 
the  general  appearance  it  looked  as  if  the  devil  had 
held  an  auction  there  the  day  before.  I  began  my 
little  "  spiel "  by  telling  my  business  —  who  I  was, 
where  I  was  from  —  and  asked  if  my  conversation 


Virginia  H.  Reichard  105 

would  interest  him  at  all  if  I  talked  about  shoes  for 
awhile,  remarking  incidentally :  "  You'll  have  some 
business  now  sure.  Trade  will  get  good  right  away, 
as  I  never  opened  up  my  samples  in  a  man's  store  in 
my  life  but  what  customers  came  dropping  in." 

"  Well,  then,  for  God's  sake  open  them  up.  I 
need  the  business  all  right  enough,"  quoth  he. 

Then  strange  to  say,  as  if  to  cinch  what  I  had  said, 
up  rode  six  country  boys  on  horseback,  and  in  a 
minute  the  big  strapping  fellows  came  tramping  in. 
You  know  the  kind  that  work  on  a  farm  all  day, 
ride  to  town  to  buy  one  pound  of  sugar  for  family 
use  and  ten  pounds  of  chewing  tobacco  for  their  own 
use,  and  other  articles  in  like  proportion  while  they 
are  having  a  good  time. 

Taking  seats  on  the  counter  opposite,  they  began 
a  lot  of  loud  talking. 

One  picked  up  a  turnip  and  began  peeling  it,  pois 
ing  it  on  the  tip  of  his  knife-blade,  taking  large  bites, 
and  never  for  a  minute  losing  sight  of  what  we  were 
doing  in  the  shoe  line. 

It  took  a  lot  of  persuading  to  get  the  proprietor 
to  look  at  my  samples,  but  I  soon  noticed  the  shrewd 
gleam  of  his  eyes  that  told  that  he  had  had  hold  of 
good  leather  before  and  was  a  much  better  judge  of 
my  line  than  I  expected  to  find  in  such  a  place.  But 
talk  about  exhorting!  How  I  worked  with  that  fel 
low.  And  after  keeping  it  up  for  two  whole  hours  — 


106         Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 

from  seven  until  nine,  I  finally  landed  him,  selling  him 
a  little  over  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  shoes.  As 
I  was  getting  a  straight  eight  per  cent  commission  at 
that  time,  the  sale  made  me  a  little  over  forty  dollars 
for  two  hours'  work,  and  I  was  feeling  mighty  good. 
Even  my  cold-blooded  customer  had  warmed  up  some 
from  the  effects  of  the  deal  on  which  he  saw  he  was 
bound  to  make  a  good  thing. 

While  I  was  packing  up  my  samples  he  said,  sort 
of  edging  around :  "  Say,  can't  you  sing  us  a  song 
or  dance  us  a  jig  or  do  something  to  entertain  us 
all?  You  travelin'  fellers  allus  know  somethin'  new, 
and  are  up  to  whatever  is  goin'  on  over  the  country, 
ain't  ye?  " 

I  replied :  "  I  can't  sing ;  I  am  out  of  voice ;  but 
if  you  can  furnish  the  music  I  can  dance  a  jig  or 
clog.  Oh,  by  the  way,  did  you  ever  see  any  sleight 
of  hand  or  legerdemain  tricks?" 

None  of  them  ever  had;  didn't  even  know  what 
they  were,  and  solemnly  assured  me  they  were  some 
thing  new  in  that  burg. 

As  I  had  been  practicing  coin  tricks  and  other 
feats  of  sleight  of  hand  for  the  last  ten  years  and 
could  do  many  of  the  former,  making  the  coins 
appear  and  disappear  at  will  in  a  mysterious  manner,  I 
decided  to  try  this  form  of  amusement,  thinking  I  had 
an  easy  bunch  to  work  on.  So  I  showed  them  a  silver 
dollar,  giving  it  to  one  of  them  to  examine,  passing 


Virginia  H.  Reichard  107 

it  on  to  each  one  of  them  in  succession,  just  to  show 
them  that  it  was  a  genuine,  everyday  piece.  Then 
taking  it  in  my  hand,  I  proceeded  to  manipulate  the 
coin  by  picking  it  out  from  underneath  one  fellow's 
foot  as  he  sat  on  the  counter  dangling  his  long  legs; 
taking  it  from  another  fellow's  chin;  picking  it  out 
from  the  pocket  of  the  jumper  one  of  them  had  on; 
rinding  it  in  the  next  man's  ear;  and  finally,  coming 
to  the  proprietor,  I  told  him  to  hold  his  thumb  and 
finger  together,  pointing  up;  then  took  the  coin  from 
between  his  own  thumb  and  finger  without  his  realiz 
ing  how  it  got  there  or  how  it  got  away.  I  caught 
his  startled  look  —  the  fellows  jumped  down  off  the 
counter  and  crowded  close  together  —  wonder  and 
amazement  written  all  over  them.  This  was  the  first 
time  in  their  lives  they  had  ever  seen  a  sleight  of 
hand  trick,  where  the  motion  of  the  hand  is  so  quick 
the  sight  cannot  follow  it. 

But  presto,  change,  begono,  magico,  came  near 
being  too  much  for  them.  They  were  absolutely 
horror  stricken.  Some  of  them  were  unable  to  speak ; 
some  were  afraid  to;  others  couldn't  speak  above  a 
whisper;  and  one  of  these  desired  to  know  when  I 
would  be  back  in  that  country  again.  He  wanted 
Brother  Bill  to  see  it;  in  fact  he  would  like  to  bring 
the  whole  family  in. 

The  proprietor's  face  was  a  study.  Doubt,  surprise 
and  suspicion  passed  over  his  face  in  succession,  but 


108         Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 

gave  way  to  fresh  curiosity  when  I  asked  him  to 
bring  me  two  hats  and  I  would  do  Hermann's 
parlor  trick  with  two  hats  and  four  balls.  The 
method  of  doing  this  is  to  place  the  four  balls  in  a 
square  about  three  feet  apart  on  a  counter  or  a  table, 
then  place  the  hats  over  two  of  the  balls;  the  object 
being  to  find  all  four  balls  under  one  hat,  without, 
of  course,  anybody  seeing  how  they  got  there.  This 
I  accomplished  successfully,  and  this  performance 
seemed  to  bring  them  close  to  the  limit.  They  had 
been  craning  their  necks  to  see,  but  when  it  was  over 
they  all  straightened  up,  took  a  step  backward  in 
line  and  looked  at  one  another.  Then  one  of  them 
said  solemnly: 

"  Folks  is  gettin'  geniuser  and  geniuser  every  day, 
boys.  Ain't  it  so  ?  "  And  Pete  nudged  Jim  to  make 
sure  it  was  no  dream,  then  spat  excitedly  on  the  rusty 
stove. 

The  proprietor  had  been  eyeing  me  with  suspicion 
for  a  good  while.  I  noticed  whenever  I  would  pass 
in  front  of  him  he  would  step  back  and  plant  his 
hands  tight  on  his  pockets  where  he  kept  his  money, 
as  if  he  thought  I  might  somehow  coax  it  to  jump 
out  unless  he  held  it  in  by  main  force.  Legerdemain 
had  scared  him  some  and  made  him  both  suspicious 
and  wary. 

Pretty  soon  I  began  to  realize  I  had  done  a  little 
too  much;  in  fact,  I  had  given  them  a  little  more 


Virginia  H.  Reichard  109 

than  they  had  been  able  to  digest.  But  like  many 
another  fool  who  has  overstepped,  I  tried  to  make 
up  by  giving  them  something  in  another  line. 

The  proprietor  looked  up  with  a  distrustful  glance. 
"Is  that  all  you  can  do?" 

"  That's  all  in  the  trick  line,  gentlemen.  But  I  have 
something  that  I  can  do  that  is  out  of  the  line  of 
tricks.  It's  a  gift  —  mind-reading.  Only  about  one 
in  six  millions  has  it.  I  do  the  same  as  Brown, 
Johnson  or  Bishop  —  those  big  guns  you  have  heard 
about  —  in  finding  any  given  object.  And  if  you, 
sir  (to  the  proprietor),  will  place  your  mind  on  any 
one  of  the  ten  thousand  articles  in  this  store,  concen 
trating  your  mind  on  it,  I  will  get  the  object  you  are 
thinking  about  and  hand  it  to  you." 

"  You  can't  do  that ;  it  ain't  possible,"  he  said. 

One  of  the  boys  spoke  up :  "  Aw,  let  him  try, 
Dan.  Gosh!  Let  him  try." 

After  looking  around  the  store  and  meditating  a 
little  he  said :  "  Durn  it  all,  then,  go  ahead.  I've 
picked  out  the  thing  I  want  you  to  get  and  by  jigger 
I'll  keep  my  mind  on  it  all  right." 

Taking  his  hand,  placing  it  upon  my  forehead,  and 
holding  it  there  with  one  of  mine,  I  started  down  the 
store,  the  other  six  rubbering  after  us  with  all  their 
might.  After  going  about  thirty  feet  with  an  occa 
sional  kick  or  bump  at  a  basket  or  barrel  that  hap 
pened  to  be  in  the  way,  I  turned  to  the  left;  stopping 


110         Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 

at  the  show-case,  and  sliding  back  the  doors,  I 
reached  in,  picked  up  a  razor  —  his  own  razor  — 
that  lay  in  the  case  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  Great  Scott,"  he  yelled.  "The  very  razor  I 
shave  myself  with  —  when  I  shave ;  and  that's  the 
very  thing  I  had  my  mind  on  too,  by  thunder/'  The 
sweat  stood  out  in  great  drops  on  his  forehead  and 
for  a  few  minutes  his  emotion  seemed  to  be  too  much 
for  him.  So  I  said : 

"  Well,  boys,  this  concludes  the  evening's  per 
formance;  meeting's  out,  boys." 

Dazed  with  wonder,  the  six  riders  looked  blankly 
at  each  other,  turned  to  me  grinning  foolishly,  then 
filed  out,  jumped  on  their  horses  and  galloped  away, 
whooping  like  Comanche  Indians. 

Bidding  the  proprietor  good  night  I  started  for 
the  door. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute !  "  he  cried.  "  I  want  to  see 
you,  young  feller."  He  strode  up  to  within  about 
two  feet  of  me,  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets, 
looking  as  if  he  would  like  to  fight.  Then  he  burst 
out  with: 

"  Say,  you're  about  the  slickest  thing  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life,  ain't  you?  You're  durned  slick.  You're 
smooth  —  a  little  too  smooth ;  and  you  hear  me,  you 
needn't  send  them  goods  I  bought  to-night.  I  won't 
take  'em." 

"What!"  I  cried. 


Virginia  H.  Reichard  HI 

"  You  hear  me ;  you  needn't  send  'em.  I  won't 
take  the  goods,"  he  said  in  a  tone  there  was  no 
mistaking. 

I  commenced  to  argue.  But  no.  "  You've  done 
killed  yourself  with  me,"  was  all  I  could  get  out  of 
him,  and  nothing  I  could  say  or  do  would  make  any 
difference.  But  I  was  bound  not  to  lose  the  forty 
dollars  without  a  struggle  and  brought  all  the  arts, 
arguments  and  persuasions  to  bear  that  I  could  think 
of;  but  without  avail.  He  seemed  to  be  convinced 
that  if  I  wasn't  the  devil  himself,  at  least  I  was  a 
near  relation,  and  he  would  have  none  of  me. 

Then  I  did  what  I  never  had  done  before :  took  the 
dollar  and  carefully  showed  him  just  how  I  had  done 
the  trick,  explaining  that  sight  was  really  slower  than 
motion  sometimes  and  that  the  whole  thing  was 
intended  to  be  harmless  and  amusing. 

"If  that's  the  way  you  did  with  the  money,  how 
about  the  four-ball  trick?"  he  asked  gruffly. 

Still  bent  upon  making  the  proposition  stick,  I 
explained  the  ball  trick  too,  by  going  over  it  and 
explaining  how  the  eye  could  be  deceived.  You  see, 
I  was  growing  more  and  more  anxious  all  the  time 
to  cinch  my  commission,  and  felt  that  my  efforts  were 
worth  while.  When  suddenly,  dubious  and  still 
unconvinced,  he  turned  to  me  and  asked: 

"  Well,  how  in  time  did  you  find  the  razor?  " 

"  I  was  very  particular  to  tell  you,"  I  said,  "  before 


112         Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 

I  went  after  that  razor  that  it  wasn't  a  trick.  It's  a 
gift  I  can't  explain;  nobody  can;  nobody  ever  did. 
I  can't  do  it;  I  don't  know  how  or  why.  Some  call 
it  mind-reading  and  some  people  have  been  kept 
guessing  to  give  it  a  name.  I  am  one  of  the  few  who 
can  do  it,  that's  all.  When  I  went  after  the  article 
you  had  in  mind,  I  didn't  know  it  was  a  razor;  I 
didn't  know  what  it  was;  but  when  I  came  in  contact 
with  what  you  had  in  mind  I  picked  it  up  and  handed 
it  to  you.  This  is  my  explanation  —  the  only  one  I 
can  give.  I  call  it  '  mind-reading,'  that's  all." 

After  some  more  talk  I  left  him  mystified  and  dis 
trustful,  in  spite  of  all  I  had  said  and  done,  still 
refusing  to  reinstate  the  order.  I  left  my  grips  in 
the  store  as  it  was  near  the  station,  and  went  to  the 
hotel  to  spend  a  restless  night,  kicking  myself  for  a 
fool  meanwhile,  since  my  attempts  to  amuse  had  lost 
me  the  neat  little  sum  of  forty  dollars. 

I  slept  a  couple  of  hours  when  I  was  awakened  by 
the  most  horrible  noise  it  was  ever  my  fortune  to 
hear :  Two  car-loads  of  calves,  just  a  day  away  from 
their  mothers,  were  being  shipped  and  their  bawling 
was  intolerable.  Talk  about  your  quiet  country  towns 
for  rest  and  sleep!  No  more  for  me  that  night,  I 
thought.  So  I  dressed,  took  a  smoke,  and  decided 
to  tackle  my  man  again  in  the  morning  and  to  try 
to  change  his  mind. 

A  little  after  daylight  I   saw  him  sweeping  the 


Virginia  H.  Reichard  113 

sidewalk  in  front  of  the  door,  handling  the  broom  as 
a  man  does  a  flail  on  the  barn  floor.  I  went  over 
and  said :  "  Good  morning."  As  he  looked  up  I  saw 
that  his  glance  was  as  surly  and  suspicious  as  it  had 
been  the  night  before,  but  thought  I  would  make  a 
good  start  by  approaching  him  upon  some  of  his 
hobbies  the  landlord  had  told  me  about.  In  his 
capacity  as  horse  trader  he  prided  himself  on  his 
ability  to  judge  a  good  horse.  So  I  opened  up  by 
telling  him  about  a  horse  I  owned,  and  asked  if  he 
had  anything  to  trade  for  him.  This  seemed  to  bring 
the  right  twinkle  into  his  eye,  and  he  began  to  brace 
up  and  take  notice  a  little.  So  I  talked  on  until  I 
saw  the  smoke  of  the  approaching  train  away  down 
the  valley  seven  or  eight  miles  along  the  old  Kantopey 
trail.  Then  I  made  a  last  attempt. 

"  Now  see  here,  Mister,"  I  said,  "  I  came  into  your 
store  last  night  and  showed  you  my  samples,  showed 
you  the  names  of  some  of  the  best  merchants  who 
have  bought  big  bills  of  me  and  I  sold  you  a  bill  of 
goods  in  good  faith.  Then  you  proposed  that  I  enter 
tain  you  as  you  had  very  little  amusement  in  a  place 
like  this.  I  told  you  I  couldn't  sing  but  would  do 
what  I  could  with  such  sleight  of  hand  tricks  as  I 
knew,  and  I  did  exactly  what  I  said  I  would.  It 
seemed  to  meet  with  plenty  of  approval  all  around 
until  the  mind-reading  came  up,  when  you  turned 
me  down  for  no  reason  whatever.  Now,  I  ask  you  a 


114         Some  Magic  and  a  Moral 

question:  Is  that  a  square  deal  to  a  man  on  a 
business  proposition  ?  " 

He  looked  at  the  floor  and  was  silent,  though 
apparently  a  little  uneasy.  He  shook  his  head  doubt 
fully,  which  made  me  feel  that  he  was  perhaps  not 
so  unfriendly  after  all,  and  might  possibly  do  the 
right  thing  yet.  Hearing  the  distant  whistle,  I  said: 

"  Train's  coming ;  have  to  go.  Wish  you  good 
luck,  just  the  same  as  if  you'd  treated  me  square. 
Wish  you  good  crops  and  plenty  of  water  for  your 
stock.  As  long  as  you  live  don't  turn  another  fellow 
down  like  you  have  me,  just  because  he's  done  his 
best  to  give  you  a  good  time."  And  I  made  a  rush 
for  the  depot  to  check  my  baggage. 

The  train  came  in;  there  was  the  usual  hurry  and 
noise.  The  old  fellow  stood  there,  leaning  against 
the  weather-boarding  of  the  depot  like  a  picture  of 
Uncle  Sam  —  a  queer,  awkward  figure  with  his  hay- 
colored  whiskers,  pipe  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth, 
and  hands  still  planted  firmly  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes 
riveted  on  every  move  I  made. 

I  boarded  the  train,  said  "  Howdy "  to  a  friend, 
and  looking  back  saw  old  Dan  standing  where  I  had 
left  him  as  if  glued  to  the  spot.  The  engine  puffed 
and  snorted ;  the  wheels  began  to  go  around.  "  Good 
bye,"  I  shouted  from  the  platform  as  if  answering 
his  steady  gaze. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  long,  gaunt  figure  limbered 


Virginia  H.  Reichard  115 

up,  like  a  corpse  that  had  been  touched  by  a  galvanic 
battery.  He  came  chasing  down  the  track  after  the 
train,  waving  his  arms  like  a  windmill  and  yelling 
like  Bedlam  let  loose :  "  Hey !  Say  there,  you  young 
feller;  hey  there!  I'll  take  them  goods;  send  'em 
along.  I'll  take  them  goods.  D'ye  hear?" 

And  I  called  back  to  him  with  great  gusto :    "  All 
right,"    as   the   train    rounded   a   curve. 

Moral:     When  you  have  sold  your  goods  make 
your  get-away. 


Sonny's  Wish 

By  Bertha  M.  H.  Shambaugh 

Sometimes  before  I  go  to  bed 

I  'member  things  that  Grandpa  said 

When  I  sat  close  beside  his  knee 
And  Grandpa  laid  his  hand  on  me. 

I  'member  how  he'd  smile  and  say, 
"Well,  what  did  Sonny  do  to-day?" 

'Cause  Grandpa  always  liked  to  know 
(I  s'pose  that's  why  I  miss  him  so). 

I  never  had  to  coax  and  plead 
For  things  I  really  didn't  need: 

I'd  'splain  it  in  an  off-hand  way 

And  Grandpa  brought  it  home  next  day. 

When  I  grow  up  I'd  like  to  be 
A  grandpa  with  a  boy  like  me 

To  live  with  and  to  bring  things  to: 
That's  what  I'd  like  the  most  to  do. 

I'd  rummage  'round  and  hunt  about 
For  things  the  boy  could  do  without, 
116 


Bertha  M.  H.  Shambaugh         117 

Because  you  see  of  course  I'd  know 

That's  why  the  boy  would  like  them  so. 

And  when  I'd  bring  some  brand  new  toy 
And  someone  said,  "  You'll  spoil  that  boy ! " 

I'd  only  shake  my  head  and  say, 

"  A  good  boy  isn't  spoiled  that  way." 

When  Sonny  said  he'd  like  to  get 

A  nice  wee  doggie  for  a  pet, 
And  when  the  grown-ups  one  and  all 

Said,  "  Oh,  no,  Son !     You're  much  too  small," 

I'd  whisper,  "  Come,  don't  look  so  blue 
'Cause  Grandpa  bought  a  dog  for  you, 

A  birthday  present!     Schh!     Don't  cry! 
He's  black  and  just  about  so  high." 

Oh,  yes!    I'm  sure  I'd  like  to  be 

A  grandpa  with  a  boy  like  me 
To  live  with  and  to  bring  things  to: 

That's  what  I'd  like  the  most  to  do. 


Dog 


By  Edwin  L.  Sabin 

The  dog  we  have  always  with  us;  if  not  active  in 
the  garden  or  passive  on  the  best  bed,  then  gracing 
or  disgracing  himself  in  other  domestic  capacities. 
For  the  dog  is  a  curious  combination,  wherein  hered 
ity  constantly  opposes  culture;  and  therefore  though 
your  dog  be  a  woolly  dog  or  a  smooth  dog,  a  large 
dog  or  a  small  dog,  a  house-dog,  yard-dog,  hunting- 
dog  or  farm-dog,  he  will  be  ever  a  delight  and  a 
scandal  according  as  he  reveals  the  complexities  of 
his  character.  Just  as  soon  as  you  have  decided  that 
he  is  almost  human,  he  will  straightway  unmistakably 
indicate  that  he  is  still  very  much  dog. 

As  example,  select,  if  you  please,  the  most  pam 
pered  and  carefully  nurtured  dog  in  dog  tribe:  some 
lady's  dog  —  beribboned  King  Charles,  bejeweled 
poodle,  be  fatted  pug  —  and  give  him  the  luxury  of  a 
half-hour  in  the  nearest  genuine  alley.  Do  you  think 
that  he  turns  up  his  delicate  nose  at  the  luscious 
smells  there  encountered  ?  Do  you  think  that  because 
of  his  repeated  scented  baths  he  sedulously  keeps  to 
the  middle  of  the  narrow  way?  Do  you  venture  to 

118 


Edwin  L.  Sabin  119 

assert  that  he  whose  jaded  palate  has  recently  declined 
the  breast  of  chicken  is  now  nauseated  by  the  prod 
igal  waste  encountered  amidst  the  garbage  cans? 

Fie  on  him,  the  ingrate!  Why,  the  little  rascal 
fairly  revels  in  the  riot  of  debris,  and  ten  to  one  he 
will  even  proudly  return  lugging  the  most  unsavoury 
of  bones  filched  from  a  particularly  odorous  reposi 
tory!  His  lapse  into  atavism  has  been  prompt  and 
certain.  I  agree  with  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  that 
every  dog  is  a  vagabond  at  heart ;  in  adapting  himself 
to  the  companionship  of  man  and  woman,  and  the 
comforts  of  board  and  lodging,  he  leads  a  double 
life. 

In  this  respect  the  dog  is  far  more  servile  than 
the  cat,  his  contemporary.  Generations  of  attempted 
coercion  have  little  influenced  the  cat.  She  (it  seems 
a  proper  distinction  to  speak  of  the  cat  as  "she") 
steadfastly  maintains  the  distance  that  shall  divide 
cat  life  from  man  life.  Without  duress,  and  in  spite 
of  duress,  she  accepts  the  material  favors  of  civiliza 
tion  and  domesticity  only  to  an  extent  that  will  not 
inconvenience  her;  she  has  no  notion  of  responsibili 
ties  or  indebtedness.  Having  achieved  her  demands 
for  a  warm  nap  or  a  full  stomach,  she  then  makes 
no  false  motions  in  following  her  own  inclinations 
entirely.  But  the  dog,  occupying  a  limbo  between 
his  natural  instincts  and  his  acquired  conscience,  must 
always  be  a  master  of  duplicity. 


120  Dog 

The  dog  (as  again  points  out  the  admirable  Steven 
son)  has  become  an  accomplished  actor.  Observe 
his  ceremonious  approach  to  other  dogs.  Mark  the 
mutual  dignity,  the  stiff-leggedness,  the  self-conscious 
strut,  the  rivalrous  emulation,  all  of  which  plainly 
says :  "  I  am  Mister  So-and-So ;  who  in  the  deuce 
are  you  ?  "  No  dog  so  small,  and  only  a  few  faint 
hearts  so  squalid,  that  they  do  not  carry  a  chip  on 
their  shoulder.  Compare  with  their  progenitors,  the 
wolves  in  a  city  park.  Here  encounters  are  quick 
and  decisive.  The  one  wolf  stands,  the  other  cringes. 
Rank  and  character  are  recognized  at  once.  The 
pretences  of  human  society  have  not  perverted  wolf 
ethics. 

Take  a  dog  at  his  tricks:  not  the  game  of  seeking 
and  fetching,  which  he  enjoys  when  in  good  humor, 
but  parlor  tricks.  He  has  learned  through  fear  of 
punishment  and  hope  of  reward.  Having  performed, 
either  sheepishly  or  promptly,  with  what  wrigglings 
and  prancings  and  waggings,  or  else  with  what  proud 
self-appreciation  does  he  court  approval.  He  knows 
very  well  that  he  is  assuming  not  to  be  a  dog,  and 
trusts  that  you  will  admit  he  is  smarter  than  mere 
dog.  On  the  contrary,  the  cat  tribe,  jumping  through 
a  hoop,  does  it  with  a  negligent,  spontaneous  grace 
that  makes  the  act  a  condescension.  The  cat  does 
not  aspire  to  be  human;  she  is  fully  content  with 
being  cat. 


Edwin  L.  Sabin  121 

Elevate  a  dog  to  a  seat  in  an  automobile  (any 
automobile),  or  even  to  the  box  of  a  rattle-trap  farm- 
wagon.  How  it  affects  him,  this  promotion  from 
walking  to  riding!  It  metamorphoses  the  meekest, 
humblest  of  so-called  curs  into  a  grandee  aristocrat, 
who  by  supercilious  look  and  offensive  words  insults 
every  other  dog  that  he  passes.  He  calls  upon  the 
world  about  to  witness  that  he  is  of  man-kind,  not 
of  dog-kind.  A  dog  riding  abroad  is  to  me  the 
epitome  of  satisfied  assumption. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  how  much,  if  any, 
the  dog's  brain  has  been  increased  by  constant  efforts 
to  be  humanized.  The  Boston  bull  is,  I  should  judge, 
(and  of  course!)  faster  in  his  intellectual  activities 
than  is  the  ordinary  English  bull.  And  then  I  might 
refer  to  the  truly  marvelous  feats  of  the  sheep-dog, 
who  will,  when  told,  cut  out  any  one  sheep  in  a 
thousand;  and  I  might  refer  to  the  finely  bred  setter, 
or  pointer,  and  his  almost  human  field  work;  and  I 
can  refer  to  my  own  dog,  whose  smartness,  both 
natural  and  acquired,  generally  is  extraordinary  — 
although  at  times  woefully  askew,  as  when  he  buries 
pancakes  in  the  fall  expecting,  if  we  may  believe 
that  he  expects,  to  dig  them  up  during  the  winter. 

And  there  are  dogs  with  great  souls  and  dogs  with 
small  souls.  We  are  told  of  dogs  noble  enough  to  sit 
by  and  let  a  needy  dog  gobble  the  meal  from  the 
platter  —  but  I  suspect  that  such  dogs  are  complacent 


122  Dog 

because  comfortably  fixed.  We  hear  of  dogs  making 
valiant  defenses  of  life  and  property  —  which  perhaps 
is  the  development  of  the  animal  instinct  to  guard 
anything  which  the  animal  considers  its  own.  And 
dogs  sometimes  effect  heroic  rescues,  by  orders  or 
voluntarily  —  although  one  may  query  whether  they 
consider  all  the  consequences. 

The  dog's  brain  must  be  an  oddly  struggling  mass 
of  fact  and  fancy.  We  have  done  our  best  for  him, 
and  as  a  rule  he  creditably  responds.  I  love  my  dog ; 
he  appears  to  love  me ;  and  by  efforts  of  me  and  mine 
he  has  been  humanized  into  a  very  adaptable  person 
age.  But  I  am  certain  that  first  principles  remain 
the  same  with  him  as  when  he  was  a  wolf-dog  of 
cave  age.  He  might  grab  me  by  the  collar  and  swim 
ashore  with  me,  but  if  on  the  desert  island  there 
was  only  one  piece  of  meat  between  us  and  starvation, 
and  he  had  it,  I'd  hate  to  have  to  risk  getting  my 
share  without  fighting  for  it. 


The  Unredeemed 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  LUSITANIA  BABES 

By  Emerson  Hough 
THE  HOLY  THREE  BEHOLD 

God  the  Father  leaned  out  from  Heaven, 

His  white  beard  swept  His  knee ; 

His  eye  was  sad  as  He  looked  far  out, 

Full  on  the  face  of  the  sea. 

Saith  God  the  Father,  "  In  My  Kingdom 

Never  was  thing  like  this; 

For  yonder  are  sinless  unredeemed, 

And  they  may  not  enter  Our  bliss." 

And  Mary  the  Mother,  She  stood  near  by, 

Her  eyes  full  sad  and  grieved. 

Saith  Mary  the  Mother,  "Alas!     Alas! 

That  they  may  not  be  received. 

Now  never  since  Heaven  began,"  saith  She, 

"  Hath  sight  like  this  meseemed, 

That  there  be  sinless  dead  below 

Who  may  not  be  redeemed !  " 

123 

Copyrighted.  1917,  by  Emerson  Hough 


124  The  Unredeemed 

And  Jesu,  the  Saviour,  He  stood  also, 

And  aye!  His  eyes  were  wet. 

Saith  Jesu  the  Saviour,  "  Since  Time  began, 

Never  was  this  thing  yet! 

For  these  be  the  Children,  the  Little  Ones, 

Afloat  on  the  icy  sea. 

They  are  doomed,  they  are  dead,  they  are  perished, 

And  they  may  not  come  unto  Me ! " 

THE  CHILDREN  CRY  OUT 

They  float,  forever  unburied, 
Their  faces  turned  to  the  sky; 
With    their    little    hands    uplifted, 
And  their  lips  forever  cry: 

"  Oh,  we  are  the  helpless  murdered  ones, 

Blown  far  on  the  icy  tide ! 

No  sin  was  ours,  but  through  all  the  days, 

On  the  northern  seas  we  ride. 

No  cerements  ever  enshroud  us, 

We  know  no  roof  of  the  sod; 

We  float  forever  unburied, 

With  our  faces  turned  to  God. 

"So  foul  the  deed  that  undid  us, 
So  damned  in  its  dull  disgrace, 
That  even  the  sea  refused  us, 
And  would  not  give  us  place. 


Emerson  Hough  125 

And  we  have  no  place  on  the  earth-lands, 
Nor  ever  a  place  in  the  sky  — 
We  are  lost,  we  are  dead,  we  are  perished, 
Ah,  Jesu,  tell  us  why!  " 


Now  the  Three  who  heard  They  wept  as  one, 
But  Their  tears  they  might  not  cease. 
Saith  God  the  Father,  "  While  unavenged 
These  may  not  know  Our  peace! 
When  the  sons  of  men  are  men  again, 
And  have  smitten  full  with  the  sword, 
At  last  these  sinless  but  unredeemed 
Shall  enter  unto  their  Lord. 

"  But  deed  like  this  is  a  common  debt ; 

It  lies  on  the  earth-race  whole. 

Till  these  be  avenged  they  be  unredeemed  — 

Each  piteous  infant  soul. 

We  must  weep,  We  must  weep,  till  the  debt  be  paid, 

The  debt  of  the  sons  of  men  — 

But  well  avenged,  they  are  aye  redeemed; 

Ah,  how  shall  We  welcome  them  then !  " 

THE  SONS  OF  MEN  HEARKEN 

Are  ye  worth  the  kiss  of  a  woman? 

Were  ye  worth  the  roof  of  a  womb? 

Are  ye  worth  the  price  of  your  grave-clothes? 

Are  ye  worth  the  name  on  a  tomb? 


126  The  Unredeemed 

Nay!     None  of  these  is  your  earning, 
And  none  of  these  be  your  meed, 
If  the  deathless  wail  of  their  yearning 
Shall  add  to  your  pulse  no  speed. 

Never  by  hand  of  a  warrior, 

Never  by  act  of  a  man, 

Have  the  Little  Ones  thus  perished, 

Since  ever  that  Heaven  began. 

Such  deed  and  the  beings  who  wrought  it 

Ah!  deep  must  the  cutting  go 

To  cure  the  world  of  the  memory 

Of  the  Little  Ones  in  woe. 

The  Three  watch  high  in  Their  Heaven, 
And  aye!  the  Three  be  grieved; 
The  sword  is  the  key  of  Their  Heaven, 
If  the  babes  shall  be  received. 

Rise  then,  men  of  our  banner  — 
Speak  in  our  ancient  tone  — 
Each  of  you  for  his  mother, 
Each  of  you  for  his  own! 
Smite  full  and  fell  and  fearless, 
Till  that  these  be  set  free  — 
These,  slain  of  the  foulest  slaying 
That  ever  made  red  the  sea. 


Emerson  Hough  127 


The  sword  of  the  Great  Avenger 
Is  now  for  the  sons  of  men; 
It  must  redden  in  errand  holy 
Till  the  babes  be  cradled  again. 


Tinkling  Cymbals 

By  Helen  Sherman  Griffith 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1915  that  Margaret  Durant 
came  back  to  her  home  in  Greenfield,  Iowa,  from  a 
visit  to  friends  in  the  East,  and  brought  with  her  a 
clear,  shining  flame  of  patriotism,  with  which  she 
proceeded  to  fire  the  town.  Margaret  had  always 
been  a  leader,  the  foremost  in  civic  betterment,  in 
government  reform,  and  in  the  activities  of  her  church 
and  woman's  club.  She  was  a  born  orator,  and 
loved  nothing  better  than  haranguing  —  and  sway 
ing  —  a  crowd. 

A  fund  was  started  for  the  purchase  of  an  ambu 
lance,  which,  Margaret  insisted,  must  be  driven  by  a 
Greenfield  man.  And  she  expressed  sorrow  on  every 
occasion  —  particularly  in  the  hearing  of  the  mothers 
of  young  men  —  that  she  had  no  son  to  offer.  The 
Red  Cross  rooms  became  the  centre  of  Greenfield 
social  activity,  and  the  young  people  never  dreamed 
of  giving  an  entertainment  for  any  purpose  save  to 
benefit  the  Red  Cross,  the  British  Relief  or  the 
Lafayette  Fund.  This  last  became  presently  the 
object  of  Margaret's  special  activities,  since  her  hus- 

128 


Helen  Sherman  Griffith  129 

band,  Paul,  some  four  generations  previously,  had 
come  of  French  blood.  "  So  that  it  is  almost  like 
working  for  my  own  country,"  Margaret  said 
proudly.  And  she  glowed  with  gratification  when 
ever  the  French  were  praised. 

So  complete  and  self-sacrificing  was  her  enthusiasm 
that  she  announced,  as  the  spring  advanced,  her  inten 
tion  of  taking  no  summer  vacation,  but  to  dedicate  the 
money  thus  saved  to  the  Lafayette  Fund,  and  to  work 
for  that  organization  during  the  entire  summer. 

Her  friends  were  thrilled  with  admiration  at  Mar 
garet's  attitude,  and  some  of  them  emulated  her 
heroic  example.  To  be  sure,  staying  at  home  that 
summer  was  a  popular  form  of  self-denial,  since  a 
good  many  families,  even  in  Greenfield,  Iowa,  were 
beginning  to  feel  the  pinch  of  war. 

One  summer  afternoon,  Margaret  strolled  home 
from  an  animated  meeting  of  the  Lafayette  Fund, 
exalted  and  tingling  with  emotion.  She  had  addressed 
the  meeting,  and  her  speech  had  been  declared  the 
epitome  of  all  that  was  splendid  and  noble.  She  had 
moved  even  herself  to  tears  by  her  appeal  for  patriot 
ism.  She  entered  the  house,  still  mentally  enshrouded 
by  intoxicating  murmurs  of  "  Isn't  she  wonderful !  " 
"  Doesn't  she  make  you  wish  you  were  a  man,  to  go 
yourself !  "  and  so  forth. 

Softly  humming  the  Marseillaise,  she  mounted  the 
steps  to  her  own  room,  to  remove  her  hat.  She 


130  Tinkling  Cymbals 

stopped  short  on  the  threshhold  with  a  sudden  startled 
cry.  Her  husband  was  there,  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  and  also  humming  the  Marseillaise.  It  was 
half  an  hour  before  his  usual  home-coming  time,  but 
that  was  not  why  Margaret  cried  out. 

Paul  was  dressed  in  khaki!  He  was  walking  up 
and  down  in  front  of  the  cheval  glass,  taking  in  the 
effect  from  different  angles.  He  looked  around 
foolishly  when  he  heard  his  wife. 

"  Just  trying  it  on,"  he  said  lightly.  "  How  do 
you  like  me  ?  " 

"  But  Paul  —  what  —  what  does  it  mean?  " 

"Just  what  you  have  guessed.  I've  signed  up. 
I'm  to  drive  the  Greenfield  ambulance,"  he  added  with 
justifiable  pride. 

Margaret  stared,  gasped,  tottered.  She  would 
have  fallen  if  she  had  not  sat  down  suddenly.  Paul 
stared,  too,  astonished. 

"  Why,  old  girl,  I  thought  it  was  what  you  wanted ! 
I  —  you  said  —  " 

"Paul,  Paul!  You!  It  can't  be!  Why  — why, 
you  are  all  I  have !  " 

"  That  is  one  reason  the  more  for  my  going  —  we 
have  no  son  to  send." 

"  But  Paul  —  it  —  I  —  the  war  is  so  far  away !  It 
isn't  as  if  —  as  if  we  were  at  war." 

"  Almost  —  *  France  is  the  land  of  my  ancestors  ' 
—  your  very  words,  Margaret." 


Helen  Sherman  Griffith  131 

"I  know,  but  —  " 

"  '  And  the  cause  is  so  just/  " 

"  But,  Paul,  I  did  not  mean  —  " 

"  Did  not  mean  what !  "  Paul  turned  and  faced 
her  sternly.  "  Margaret,  your  eloquence  has  sent  a 
good  many  young  men  to  the  front.  I  wonder  —  " 
He  paused,  and  a  new  expression  dawned  in  his  eyes; 
an  expression  that  Margaret  could  not  bear :  an  accu 
sation,  a  suspicion. 

Margaret  cowered  in  her  chair  and  hid  her  face. 

"  Oh,  Paul,  not  that,  not  that !  Leave  me  a 
moment,  please.  I  —  I  want  time  to  —  to  grasp  it." 

When  she  was  alone  she  sat  upright  and  faced  the 
look  she  had  seen  in  Paul's  eyes. 

"  I  am  a  canting  hypocrite.  I  see  it  now,  plainly. 
I  read  it  in  Paul's  eyes.  But  I  will  show  him  he's 
mistaken.  God!  is  hypocrisy  always  so  cruelly  pun 
ished?  Merciful  God,  have  pity  upon  me!" 

Rising  to  her  feet,  Margaret  staggered  to  the  door 
and  called.  The  enthusiasm,  the  exaltation,  had 
faded  from  her  face,  leaving  it  pinched  and  gray. 
But  in  her  eyes  a  new  expression  had  been  born, 
which  lent  a  soft  radiance  to  her  features,  the  light  of 
complete  self-denial.  Paul  entered,  gave  one  look, 
then  knelt  at  his  wife's  feet. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  love,  for  misunderstanding  you. 
The  fault  was  mine.  You've  been  afraid  I  would 
not  make  good,  and  were  testing  me.  Ah,  my  love." 


132  Tinkling  Cymbals 

For  one  terrible  moment  Margaret  hesitated.  Then 
she  whispered: 

"  No,  Paul,  you  were  right  at  first ;  but  love  has 
conquered.  Not  our  love,  but  a  greater,  nobler  senti 
ment:  love  of  Right  and  Justice.  Do  you  remember 
the  verse :  '  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men 
and  of  angels,  and  have  not  love,  I  am  become  as 
sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal.'  I  —  I  am  not 
a  tinkling  cymbal,  Paul.  I  —  Oh,  Paul,  take  me  with 
you!  I  can  be  of  some  use  over  there.  We  will  go 
together. 

Paul  rose  and  embraced  her. 

"  My  precious  one !  How  Greenfield  will  honor 
you!" 

Margaret  winced  and  hid  her  face  in  his  breast. 

"  No,  Paul,  no,  no.  Don't  let  them  know !  Let 
us  go  away  quietly,  in  the  night.  Please,  please, 
Paul.  I  —  I  could  not  bear  any  other  way !  " 

Durant  kissed  her  and  said  no  more.  And  if  he 
understood,  he  never  let  her  know  that  he  did. 


The  First  Laugh 

By  Reuben  F.  Place 

In  the  life  of  every  baby  there  is  a  continuous  suc 
cession  of  first  impressions  and  adventures.  The  first 
tooth,  the  first  crawl,  the  first  step,  the  first  word, 
each  mark  a  milestone  in  the  child's  career.  But  more 
interesting  than  any  of  these  is  the  first  laugh  —  the 
first  genuine,  sustained,  prolonged,  whole-hearted 
laugh.  If  it  is  a  tinkling,  bubbling,  echoing  laugh, 
it  sends  its  merry  waves  in  all  directions  —  the  kind 
that  brings  smiles  to  sober  faces. 

What  hope  springs  up  in  the  parents'  breasts  at 
the  sound  of  that  first  laugh!  How  thoroughly  it 
denotes  the  future! 

A  hearty  laugh  or  no  laugh  in  later  years  may 
mean  the  difference  between  fame  and  obscurity,  for 
tune  and  poverty,  friends  and  enemies. 

"  How  much  lies  in  laughter :  the  cipher  key, 
wherewith  we  decipher  the  whole  man!"  wrote 
Carlyle. 

A  good  laugh  is  a  charming,  invaluable  attribute. 
It  saves  the  day,  maintains  the  health,  makes  friends, 
soothes  injured  feelings,  and  saves  big  situations. 

133 


134  The  First  Laugh 

Laughter  is  a  distinguishing  mark  between  man 
and  beast.  It  is  the  sign  of  character  and  the  mirror 
in  which  is  reflected  disposition. 

To  laugh  is  to  live. 

The  babe's  first  laugh  is  a  precious  family  memory. 
A  load  of  responsibility  goes  with  it.  It  should  be 
guarded  and  guided  and  cultivated  until  it  becomes 
"  Laughter  that  opens  the  lips  and  heart,  that  shows 
at  the  same  time  pearls  and  the  soul." 


The  Freighter's  Dream 

By  Ida  M.  Huntington 

"  Squeak !  Squ-e-a-k !  Scr-e-e-ch !  "  The  shrill, 
monotonous  sound  rent  the  hot  noontide  air  like  a 
wail  of  complaint. 

"  Thar  she  goes  ag'in,  a-cussin'  of  her  driver !  " 
grumbled  old  Hi,  as  he  walked  at  the  head  of  his 
lead  oxen,  Poly  and  Bony,  with  Buck  and  Berry 
panting  behind  them.  "  Jest  listen  at  her !  An'  'twas 
only  day  afore  yistiddy  that  I  put  in  a  hull  half  hour 
a-greasin  of  her.  Wai,  she'll  hev  to  fuss  till  mornin'. 
We  ain't  got  no  time  to  stop  a  minute  in  this  hot 
place.  If  we  make  the  springs  afore  the  beasteses 
gin  out  'twill  be  more'n  I  look  fer !  " 

Old  Hi  anxiously  gazed  ahead,  trying  to  see 
through  the  shimmering  haze  of  the  desert  the  far- 
distant  little  spot  of  ground  where  bubbled  up  the 
precious  spring  by  which  they  might  halt  for  rest 
and  refreshment  "  G'lang,  Poly!  That's  right, 
Bony !  Keep  it  up,  ol'  fellers !  "  Hi  strove  to  encour 
age  the  patient  oxen  as  they  plodded  wearily  along 
through  the  fearful  heat  and  the  suffocating  clouds 
of  fine  alkali  dust. 

135 


136  The  Freighter's  Dream 

For  weeks  the  long  train  of  covered  wagons  had 
moved  steadily  westward  over  the  dim  trails.  Start 
ing  away  back  in  Ohio,  loaded  with  necessities  for 
the  prospectors  in  the  far  West,  they  had  crossed  the 
fertile  prairies,  stuck  in  the  muddy  sloughs,  forded 
the  swollen  rivers,  rumbled  over  the  plains  and  wound 
in  and  out  the  mountain  passes.  Now  they  were 
crawling  over  the  desert,  man  and  beast  almost 
exhausted,  even  the  seasoned  wagons  seeming  to  pro 
test  against  the  strain  put  upon  them. 

All  that  afternoon  Hi  walked  with  his  oxen, 
talking  and  whistling,  as  much  to  keep  up  his  own 
courage  as  to  quicken  their  pace.  For  a  few  moments 
at  a  time  they  would  rest,  and  then  onward  again 
towards  the  springs  indicated  on  the  map  by  which 
they  traveled. 

Half  blind  and  dizzy  from  the  dust  and  heat, 
sometimes  Hi  stumbled  and  staggered  and  nearly  fell. 
He  dared  not  turn  to  see  how  it  fared  with  the 
men  and  teams  behind  him.  Wrecks  of  wagons  and 
bones  of  oxen  by  the  side  of  the  trail  told  an  all- 
too-plain  story.  Some  there  were  in  every  train 
who  dropped  by  the  way;  men  who  raved  in  fever 
and  died  calling  for  water;  faithful  oxen  who  were 
shot  to  put  them  out  of  misery.  Wagons  were 
abandoned  with  their  valuable  freight  when  the  teams 
could  no  longer  pull  them. 

All  afternoon  they  crept  forward;  the  reiterating 


Ida  M.  Huntington  137 

"  Squeak !  Squ-e-a-k !  Scr-e-e-ch !  "  of  the  wagon 
sounded  like  a  maddened  human  voice  to  poor  Hi, 
fevered  and  half  delirious. 

At  last  the  sun  sank  like  a  ball  of  fire  in  the  haze. 
A  cool  breath  of  air  sighed  across  the  plain.  The 
prairie  dogs  barked  from  their  burrows.  The  coyotes 
yapped  in  the  distance.  But  not  yet  could  the  long 
train  stop,  for  rest  without  water  meant  death. 

Far  into  the  night  the  white-topped  wagons  crept 
on  like  specters.  No  sound  was  heard  except  that 
of  the  plodding  feet  of  the  oxen,  the  rumble  of 
the  heavy  wagons  and  the  "  Squeak !  Squ-e-a-k ! 
Scr-e-e-ch !  "  that  had  troubled  Hi  since  noon.  Sud 
denly  the  oxen  lifted  their  heads,  sniffed  the  air 
eagerly,  and  without  urging  quickened  their  pace. 

"What  is  it,  ol'  fellers?"  asked  Hi,  as  hope 
revived.  "  Is  it  the  water  ye  are  smellin'  ?  Stiddy, 
thar!  Stiddy!" 

A  few  moments  more,  and  Hi  gave  a  shout  of  joy 
that  was  taken  up  and  sounded  down  the  line.  "  The 
spring!  The  spring!" 

A  halt  was  made.  Every  drop  of  the  precious 
water  was  carefully  portioned  out  so  that  each  might 
have  his  share.  Preparations  were  made  for  the 
night.  The  wagons  were  pulled  up  in  a  circle.  The 
oxen  were  carefully  secured  that  they  might  not 
wander  away.  Here  and  there  a  flickering  little  fire 
was  seen  as  the  scanty  "  grub  "  was  cooked.  After 


138  The  Freighter's  Dream 

Hi  had  bolted  his  share  he  wrapped  himself  in  his 
blanket  and  lay  down  near  his  wagon.  The  large 
white  top  loomed  dimly  before  him  in  the  darkness. 

A  little  while  he  stretched  and  twisted  and  turned 
uneasily  until  his  tired  muscles  relaxed.  In  his  ears 
yet  seemed  to  sound  the  "  Squeak !  Squ-e-a-k ! 
Scr-e-e-ch ! "  of  the  complaining  wagon  as  it  had 
bothered  him  all  afternoon.  "  Darn  ye !  Won't  ye 
ever  shet  up?  "  he  muttered  as  he  drifted  off  to  sleep. 

"  Won't  I  ever  shet  up  ?  I  won't  till  I  git  good 
and  ready !  "  The  sharp,  shrill  voice  made  Hi  open 
his  eyes  with  a  start.  Above  him  leaned  the  huge 
form  of  an  old  woman  in  a  white  cap  drawn  close 
about  her  wrinkled,  seamed  face,  only  partly  dis 
tinguishable  in  the  darkness.  As  he  lay  blinking, 
trying  to  see  her  more  plainly,  the  high  falsetto  voice 
continued  its  plaint. 

"  Won't  I  ever  shet  up  ?  A  nice  way  thet  is  to 
talk  to  me,  Hi  Smith!  Do  I  iver  grumble  and  snarl 
when  ye  treat  me  right?  Hain't  I  been  faithful  to 
ye  through  thick  an'  thin  ?  Hain't  I  made  a  home  f er 
ye  all  this  hull  endurin'  trip?  Hain't  I  looked  after 
yer  grub  and  yer  blankets  and  done  ever'thin'  I  could 
to  make  ye  comfortable?  Hain't  I  kep'  the  rain 
off  en  ye  at  night?  An'  thet  time  the  Injuns  was 
after  ye,  didn't  I  stand  atween  ye  an'  the  redskins 
and  pertect  ye?  Didn't  I  keep  ye  from  gittin' 
drownded  when  ye  crossed  thet  river  whar  the  cur- 


Ida  M.  Huntington  139 

rent  swep'  the  beasteses  offen  their  feet?  Didn't  I 
watch  over  ye  and  shield  ye  from  the  sun  when  ye 
lay  sick  of  the  fever  and  hadn't  nary  wife  to  look 
after  ye  ?  Hain't  I  f ollered  after  them  dumb  beasteses 
through  mud  and  water  and  over  gravel  and  through 
clouds  of  alkali  dust  thick  enough  to  choke  a  person, 
and  niver  said  a  word?  An'  now,  jest  bekase  I'm 
fair  swizzled  up  with  the  heat  and  ye  fergit  to  give 
me  some  grease  to  rub  on  my  achin'  j'ints,  ye  cuss 
me !  Yis,  I  heerd  ye !  Ye  needn't  deny  it !  A-cussin' 
of  me  who  has  taken  the  place  of  home  an'  mother  to 
ye  fer  years !  I  heerd  ye !  I  he-e-rd  ye !  What  d'ye 
mean,  I  say !  "  And  the  tirade  ended  in  a  perfect 
screech  of  anger. 

Thoroughly  aroused,  Hi  rolled  over  and  jumped 
hastily  to  his  feet.  He  looked  all  around.  The  old 
woman  had  mysteriously  vanished.  A  coyotte  sneaked 
past  him.  Day  was  breaking  in  the  east.  The  first 
gleam  of  light  fell  on  the  white-topped  wagon  drawn 
up  beside  him. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes.  "  Wai,  I  swan !  "  he  muttered, 
as  he  gazed  bewilderedly  at  the  close-drawn  white 
top  looming  above  him.  "  Glad  I  woke  up  airly !  I'll 
hev  time  ter  grease  that  thar  wagon  afore  we  start !  " 


A  Box  From  Home 

By  Helen  Cowles  LeCron 

I'll  send  to  you  in  France,  my  dear, 

A  box  with  treasures  in  it: 
The  patch  of  sky  that  meets  our  hill 

And  changes  every  minute, 
The  grape-vine  that  you  taught  to  grow  — 

My  pansies  young  with  dew, 
The  plum-tree  by  the  kitchen  door  — 

These  things  I'll  send  to  you. 

I'll  pack  with  care  our  fragile  dawn  — 

The  dawn  we  laughed  to  greet; 
I'll  send  the  comfort  of  the  grass 

That  once  caressed  your  feet. 
No  yearning  love  of  mine  I'll  send 

To  tear  your  heart  in  two  — 
Just  earth-peace  —  home-peace  —  still  and  strong 

These  things  I'll  send  to  you. 

For  you  must  tire  of  flags,  and  guns, 
And  courage  high,  and  pain, 

140 


Helen  Cowles  LeCron  141 

And  long  to  rest  your  heart  upon 

The  common  things  again, 
And  so  I'll  send  no  prayers,  no  tears, 

No  longings  —  only  dew 
And  garden-rows,  and  goldenrod 

And  country  roads  to  you! 

Since  life  has  given  you  to  know 

The  gentle  tenderness 
Of  growing  things,  I  cannot  think 

That  death  would  give  you  less! 
Hold  fast,  hold  fast  within  your  heart 

The  earth-sweet  hours  we  knew, 
And  keep,  my  dear,  where'er  you  are 

These  things  I  send  to  you. 


The  Spirit  of  Spring 

By  Laura  L.  Hinkley 

Margaret  Hazeltine  sat  on  her  porch  with  the 
spring  wind  blowing  over  her  elusive  wafts  of  fra 
grance —  plum-blossom,  apple-blossom,  young  grass, 
budding  wood  scents,  pure,  growing  earth-smells. 

"  It  is  like  breathing  poetry,"   Margaret  thought. 

She  was  sewing,  but  now  and  then  her  hands  fell 
in  her  lap  while  she  lifted  her  head,  catching  in  some 
wandering  sweetness  with  a  sharp  breath,  like  a  sigh. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Sunshine 
mellowed  the  new  greenness  of  short,  tender  grass  on 
the  lawns.  It  shone  upon  all  the  bare,  budded 
branches  up  and  down  the  street,  seeking,  caressing, 
stimulating.  It  lay  kindly,  genially,  on  the  mid-road 
dust. 

Margaret's  father  was  pottering  about  the  garden. 
He  was  a  very  old  man,  with  stooping  shoulders,  but 
tall  and  slender  like  his  daughter.  He  came  up  to 
the  porch  and  stood  leaning  on  his  hoe.  The  wind 
fluttered  his  shabby  garden-coat  and  thin,  white 
beard.  He  rested  his  wrinkled  old  hands  on  the  top 
of  his  hoe  handle,  and  cast  up  his  faded,  sunken 

142 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  143 

eyes  to  the  intense  young  blue  of  the  sky  with  its 
fleecy  clouds  floating. 

Mr.  Hazeltine  addressed  his  daughter  in  the  strain 
of  conversational  piety  habitual  with  him,  and  in  a 
voice  which  age  and  earnestness  made  tremulous : 

"  Seems  like  every  spring  I  get  more  certain  of 
my  eternal  home  up  yonder !  " 

Margaret  smiled  acquiescently.  Long  since  she 
had  silently  drifted  outside  the  zone  of  her  father's 
simple,  rigid  creed;  but  to-day  its  bald  egoism  did 
not  repel  her.  It  seemed  at  one  with  the  sweet  will 
to  live  all  about  them. 

Mr.  Hazeltine  went  back  to  the  garden.  A  girl 
appeared  on  the  porch  of  the  house  opposite.  The 
Hazeltine  house  was  small  and  old  and  not  lately 
painted.  The  house  opposite  was  large,  fresh,  trim, 
and  commodious  in  every  visible  detail.  White 
cement  walks  enclosed  and  divided  its  neatly  kept 
lawns  and  parking.  Its  fruit-trees  breathed  out  of 
the  unfolding  whiteness  of  their  bosoms  the  sweetest 
of  those  perfumes  that  drifted  across  to  Margaret. 
The  girl  on  the  porch  pushed  the  wicker  chairs  about 
for  a  moment,  then,  disdaining  them  all,  sat  down  on 
the  cement  steps  and  rested  her  chin  in  her  palm. 

After  a  quick  look  and  smile  Margaret  sewed 
busily,  affecting  not  to  see  the  other.  She  felt  a 
little  sympathetic  flutter  of  pleasure  and  suspense. 
"Jean  is  waiting  for  Frank,"  she  said  to  herself. 


144  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

A  piano  began  to  play  in  a  house  up  the  street. 
Through  the  open  windows  rang  joyous,  vibrant 
music.  White  moths  fluttered  across  the  street  and 
the  lawn  and  parking  opposite,  veering  vaguely  over 
scattered  yellow  dandelion  heads.  Around  the  house 
opposite  on  the  cement  walk  strutted  a  very  young 
kitten  on  soft  paws,  its  short  tail  sticking  straight 
up,  its  gray  coat  still  rough  from  its  mother's  tongue. 

"  Me-ow ! "  said  the  kitten  plaintively,  appalled  at 
its  own  daring. 

Jean  sprang  up,  laughing,  snatched  up  the  kitten 
and  carried  it  back  to  her  seat,  cuddling  it  under  her 
chin. 

Down  the  street  came  a  young  girl  wheeling  a 
baby's  cab.  The  girl  was  but  just  past  childhood,  and 
she  had  been  a  homely  child.  But  of  late  she  had 
bloomed  as  mysteriously  and  almost  as  quickly  as  the 
plum-trees.  She  wore  a  light  summer  dress  with  a 
leaf -brown  design  upon  it,  in  which  her  girlish  form 
still  half-confessed  the  child.  Her  complexion  was 
clear  and  bright,  the  cheeks  flushed ;  and  the  strongly- 
marked  features  seemed  ready  to  melt  and  fuse  to 
a  softer  mould.  Her  brown  eyes  had  grown  wistful 
and  winning. 

As  they  advanced,  Margaret  ran  down  the  rickety 
wooden  walk. 

"  Oh,  is  that  the  new  baby?  "  she  cried  delightedly. 
"May  I  look?" 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  145 

The  girl  smiled  assent. 

Softly  Margaret  drew  back  the  woolly  carriage 
robe  and  gazed  adoringly.  The  baby  was  about  six 
weeks  old.  Its  tiny  face  was  translucent,  pinky 
white,  the  closed  eyelids  with  their  fringe  of  fine 
lashes  inconceivably  delicate.  Its  wee  hands  cuddled 
about  its  head;  the  curled,  pink  fingers,  each  tipped 
with  its  infinitesimal,  dainty  nail,  were  perfection  in 
miniature.  The  formless  mouth,  pinker  than  the  rest 
of  the  face,  moved  in  sleep,  betraying  the  one  dream 
the  baby  knew. 

Margaret  drew  a  long,  still  breath  of  rapture, 
hanging  over  the  little  pink  pearl  of  humanity. 

"Will  he  wake  if  I  kiss  him?"  she  pleaded. 

The  girl  smiled  doubtfully.     "  Maybe,"  she  said. 

She  was  equally  indifferent  to  the  baby  and  to 
Margaret.  Her  wistful  eyes  wandered  eagerly  down 
the  street,  watching  each  sidewalk,  and  the  glow  in 
her  cheeks  and  eyes  seemed  to  kindle  and  waver 
momently. 

Margaret  did  not  kiss  the  baby.  She  only  bent 
her  head  close  over  his,  close  enough  to  feel  his 
warm,  quick  breathing,  to  catch  the  rhythm  of  his 
palpitating  little  life. 

When  she  came  back  to  her  porch,  after  the  girl 
had  gone  on,  Margaret  saw  that  Jean's  caller  had 
come. 

The  young  man  sat  beside  Jean.     His  head  was 


146  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

bare,  his  black  hair  brushed  stiffly  up  from  his  fore 
head  pompadour-fashion,  his  new  spring  suit  palpably 
in  its  original  creases.  He  and  Jean  talked  eagerly, 
sometimes  with  shouts  of  young  laughter,  at  which 
Margaret  smiled  sympathetically;  sometimes  with 
swift,  earnest  interchange;  sometimes  with  lazy,  con 
tented  intervals  of  silence.  Occasionally  he  put  out 
his  hand  to  pat  or  tease  the  kitten  which  lay  in 
Jean's  lap.  She  defended  it.  Whenever  their  fingers 
chanced  to  touch  they  started  consciously  apart  — 
covertly  to  tempt  the  chance  again. 

Two  little  girls  came  skipping  down  the  street, 
their  white  dresses  tossed  about  their  knees.  Their 
loose  hair,  of  the  dusky  fairness  of  brunette  children, 
tossed  about  their  shoulders  and  an  immense  white 
ribbon  bow  quivered  on  the  top  of  each  little  bare 
head.  Their  dress  and  their  dancing  run  gave  them 
the  look  and  the  wavering  allure  of  butterflies. 

They  were  on  Jean's  side  of  the  street.  They 
fluttered  past  the  house  unnoticed  by  the  two  on  the 
porch,  who  were  in  the  midst  of  an  especially  inter 
esting  quarrel  about  the  kitten.  The  little  girls 
passed  over  the  crossing  with  traces  of  conscientious 
care  for  their  white  slippers,  and  came  up  on  Mar 
garet's  side.  Opposite  her  they  paused  in  con 
sultation. 

"  Won't  you  come  in,"  she  called  to  them,  "  and 
talk  to  me  a  minute?" 


Laura  L.  Hmkley  147 

The  two  advanced  hesitatingly  and  stood  before 
her  at  a  little  distance  on  the  young  grass  in  atti^ 
tudes  clearly  tentative.  They  were  shy  little  misses, 
and  had  not  lived  long  on  that  street. 

"  Someone  told  me,"  said  Margaret,  "  that  your 
names  were  Enid  and  Elaine.  Which  is  which?" 

The  taller  one  pointed  first  to  her  embroidered 
bosom,  then  to  her  sister. 

"I'm  Enid;  she's  Elaine." 

"  I've  read  about  you  in  a  book  of  poetry," 
observed  Margaret  —  "  it  must  have  been  you !  I 
suppose  if  you  had  a  little  sister  her  name  would  be 
Guinevere  ? " 

The  large  dark  eyes  of  the  two  exchanged  glances 
of  denial.  The  small  Elaine  shook  her  head 
decidedly. 

"  We  got  a  little  sister !  "  announced  Enid,  "  but 
her  name  ain't  that;  it's  Katherine." 

They  were  both  pretty  with  the  adorable  prettiness 
of  small  girls,  half  baby's  beauty,  and  half  woman's. 
But  Enid's  good  looks  would  always  depend  more 
or  less  upon  happy  accident  —  her  time  of  life,  her 
flow  of  spirits,  her  fortune  in  costume.  Her  face 
was  rather  long,  with  chin  and  forehead  a  trifle  too 
pronounced.  But  the  little  Elaine  was  nature's 
darling.  Her  softly  rounded  person  and  countenance 
were  instinct  with  charm.  Even  her  little  brown 
hands  had  delicacy  and  character.  Her  white- 


148  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

stockinged  legs,  from  the  fine  ankles  to  the  rounded 
knees  at  her  skirt's  edge,  were  turned  to  a  sculptor's 
desire.  Beside  them,  Enid's  merely  serviceable  legs 
looked  like  sticks.  The  white  bows  in  their  hair 
shared  the  ensemble  effect  of  each:  Enid's  perched 
precisely  in  the  middle,  its  loops  and  ends  vibrantly 
and  decisively  erect;  Elaine's  drooped  a  little  at  one 
side,  its  crispness  at  once  confessing  and  defying 
evanescence  and  fragility. 

Margaret  thrilled  with  the  child's  loveliness,  but 
for  some  subtle  reason  she  smiled  chiefly  on  Enid. 

That  little  lady  concluded  she  must  be  a  person 
worthy  of  confidence. 

"  My  doll's  name  is  Clara,"  she  imparted.  "  An' 
hers  is  Isabel,  only  she  calls  it  *  Ithabel ' ! " 

The  color  deepened  in  Elaine's  dainty  cheek.  She 
was  stung  to  protest;  which  she  did  with  all  the 
grace  in  the  world,  hanging  her  head  at  one  side  and 
speaking  low. 

"I  don't  either!"  she  murmured.  "I  thay 
Ithabel!" 

"  Either  way  is  very  nice,"  Margaret  hastened  to 
say. 

"  We've  been  to  Miss  Eaton's  Sunday  school  chil 
dren's  party,"  Enid  informed  her.  "  These  are  our 
best  dresses,  and  our  white  kid  slippers.  Don't  you 
think  they're  pretty?  Mine  tie  with  ribbons,  but 
hers  only  button  like  a  baby's." 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  149 

Elaine  looked  down  grievingly  at  the  offensively 
infantile  slippers,  turning  her  exquisite  little  foot. 

"  I'm  going  to  speak  a  piece  for  Easter,"  Enid 
pursued,  "  all  alone  by  myself ;  and  she's  going  to 
speak  one  in  concert  with  a  class." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  will  come  and  speak  them  for 
me  some  time,"  Margaret  invited ;  "  and  bring  Clara 
and  Isabel." 

"  Maybe  we  will,"  answered  Enid.  "  We  must  go 
now.  Come  on,  Elaine." 

Margaret  watched  them  until  they  stopped  beside 
a  flowerbed  along  the  sidewalk  where  the  first  tulips 
of  the  season  were  unfolding.  Elaine  bent  over  to 
examine  them.  Margaret  reproached  herself  that, 
though  Elaine  had  spoken  but  once,  it  was  her  image 
that  lingered  uppermost.  Why  should  she  add  even 
the  weight  of  her  preference  to  that  child  in  whose 
favor  the  dice  were  already  so  heavily  loaded?  For 
in  Margaret's  eyes,  beauty  was  always  the  chief  gift 
of  the  gods 

As  she  resumed  her  sewing,  a  sudden,  fantastic 
fear  shot  across  her  thoughts  —  the  fear  that  Elaine 
would  die.  She  recognized  it,  in  a  moment,  for  the 
heart's  old,  sad  prevision  of  impermanence  in  beauty, 
its  rooted  unbelief  in  fortune's  constancy. 

A  quick  glance  up  the  street  showed  Elaine  still 
stooping  over  the  tulip  bed,  her  stiff  little  skirts 
sticking  out  straight  behind  her.  The  grotesqueness 


150  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

was  somehow  reassuring.  Margaret  smiled,  half  at 
the  absurd  little  figure,  half  at  her  own  absurdly 
tragic  fancy. 

On  the  other  porch  Frank  was  taking  his  leave  — 
a  process  of  some  duration.  First  he  stood  on  the 
lower  steps  talking  at  length  with  Jean  who  stood 
on  the  top  step.  Then  he  raised  his  cap  and  started 
away,  only  to  remember  something  before  he  reached 
the  corner  and  to  run  back  across  the  lawn.  There 
he  stood  talking  while  Jean  sat  on  the  porch  railing, 
suggesting  a  faint  Romeo  and  Juliet  effect.  The 
next  time,  Jean  called  him  back.  They  met  halfway 
down  the  cement  walk  and  conversed  earnestly  and 
lengthily. 

With  an  exquisite  sympathy  Margaret  watched 
these  maneuvers  from  under  discreet  eyelids.  She 
was  glad  for  them  both,  with  a  clear-souled,  generous 
joy.  And  yet  she  felt  a  sensitive  pleasure  that  walked 
on  the  edge  of  pain.  In  the  young  man  especially 
she  took  a  quick  delight  —  in  his  supple  length  of 
limb,  the  spread  of  his  shoulders,  his  close-cropped 
black  hair,  his  new  clothes,  the  way  he  thrust  his 
hands  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets  while  he  swung 
on  the  balls  of  his  feet,  the  attentive  bend  of  his  head 
toward  Jean;  she  reveled  in  all  his  elastic,  masculine 
youth  which  she  knew  for  the  garb  of  a  straight, 
strong,  kindly,  honorable  soul.  But  out  of  the  revel 
grew  a  trouble,  as  if  some  strange  spirit  prisoned  in 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  151 

her  own  struggled  to  tear  itself  free,  to  fling  itself, 
wailing,  in  the  dust. 

"  Egotism !  "  said  Margaret  to  herself,  curling  her 
lip,  sewing  very  fast.  The  fluttering  spirit  lay  tombed 
and  still. 

When  Frank  was  finally  gone,  Jean  sauntered 
across  the  street  to  Margaret's  porch.  She  perched 
on  the  rail  and  pulled  at  the  leafless  vine-stems  beside 
her,  talking  idly  and  desultorily  of  things  she  was 
not  interested  in. 

She  was  an  attractive  girl,  more  wholesome  than 
beautiful.  Her  bronze-brown  hair  coiled  stylishly 
about  her  head,  gleamed  in  the  late  sun.  There  were 
some  tiny  freckles  across  her  nose.  She  wore  a  pale 
blue  summer-dress  with  short  sleeves  out  of  which 
her  young  arms  emerged,  fresh  and  tender  from  their 
winter  seclusion. 

The  two  maidens  circled  warily  about  the  topic 
they  were  both  longing  to  talk  of.  Margaret  noted 
in  Jean  a  new  aloofness.  Every  time  she  threw 
Frank's  name  temptingly  into  the  open  Jean  pur 
posely  let  it  lie. 

At  last,  with  a  little  gasp  of  laughter,  looking 
straight  before  her,  Jean  exclaimed :  "  I  guess  I'm 
sort  of  scared! " 

"  What  I  like  about  Frank,"  said  Margaret,  "  is 
that  he's  so  true  and  reliable.  He's  a  fellow  you  can 
trust!" 


152  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

"  Yes,"  assented  Jean.     "  Don't  you  think  he  looks 

—  nice  in  that  new  suit  ?  " 

"  Splendid !  Frank's  a  handsome  boy." 

"Isn't  he?"  sighed  Jean. 

"  He'll  always  be  constant  to  anyone  he  cares  for. 
And,  I  think  —  he  does  care  for  someone." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?  "  demanded  Jean,  her 
blue  eyes  suddenly  intent  on  Margaret. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  Margaret  parried. 

Jean  sat  up  instantly  very  straight  and  stiff. 

"  Who  said  I  thought  anything?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  "  Margaret  disclaimed  hastily.  "  I 
didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  anyone  would  think  so !  " 

Jean  lapsed  into  a  placated  limpness,  resting  her 
lithe  young  figure  in  its  summer  blue  against  the 
dingy  house-wall. 

"  Isn't  it  funny,"  she  mused,  "  how  you  can  resolve 
you  won't  think,  and  keep  yourself  from  thinking, 
and  really  not  think,  because  you've  made  up  your 
mind  you  wouldn't  —  and  all  the  time  you  know! " 

Margaret  was  searching  in  her  mind  for  some 
tenderest  phrase  of  warning  when  Jean  anticipated 
her. 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  I  don't  care !  —  I  thought 
at  first  I  didn't  like  his  hair  that  way,  but  I  do  now 

—  better  than  the  other  way.     He  was  telling  about 
college." 

"He  finishes  this  year,  doesn't  he?" 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  153 

"  Yes.  He's  going  in  with  his  father  next  year  — 
unless  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  go  to  Yale.  But 
he  doesn't  think  he  will.  His  father  wants  him  here ; 
and  he's  about  decided  that's  best." 

"  Marg'ret,"  called  a  thin,  querulous,  broken  voice 
from  within  the  house ;  "  ain't  it  time  you  was  gettin' 
supper  ?  " 

Margaret  opened  the  door  to  call  back  in  a  loud, 
clear  voice:  "Not  yet,  Mother." 

Jean  slipped  off  the  railing.     "  I  must  go." 

"  It  really  isn't  time  yet.  Mother  gets  nervous, 
sitting  all  day.  And  she  doesn't  care  to  read  any 
more.  Stay  a  little  longer." 

These  snatches  of  Jean's  confidence  were  delicious 
to  her. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  to  go." 

Jean  suddenly  put  both  arms  around  Margaret's 
waist  and  clasped  her  in  a  swift  embrace. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said,  "  some  awfully  nice  old 
widower  or  bachelor  would  come  along  and  marry 
you!" 

As  Jean  crossed  the  street  with  the  lowering  sun 
making  a  nimbus  in  her  chestnut-golden  hair,  she 
began  to  sing.  The  words  sprang  joyous  and  clear 
as  a  bobolink's  note — 

"What's   this   dull   town  to  me? 
Robin's  not  here !  " 


154  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

But  a  sudden  waft  of  consciousness  smote  them  to 
a  vague  humming  that  passed  swiftly  into  — 

"  My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream ; 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream." 

In  the  scented  dark  of  the  spring  evening,  Mar 
garet  came  to  the  porch  again.  A  little  curved  moon 
sailed  the  sky  —  less  a  light-giver  than  a  shining 
ornament  on  the  breast  of  night.  A  while  before 
children's  laughter  and  skurrying  footfalls  had  echoed 
down  the  sidewalks.  Boys  had  played  ball  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  with  running  and  violent  con 
tortions,  and  shouts  and  calls  rejoicing  in  the  release 
of  their  animal  energies.  But  these  sounds  had  ceded 
to  silence  as  the  soft  darkness  fell.  Then  young 
strollers,  two  and  two,  had  passed;  but  these  also 
were  gone.  A  gentle  wind  rustled  very  softly  in 
the  dead  vine-stalks.  The  world  was  alone  with 
the  fragrant  wind  and  the  dreaming  dusk  and  the 
little  silver  scimitar  of  moon. 

The  house  opposite  was  all  dark,  except  for  a  line 
of  lamplight  beside  the  drawn  blind  of  a  side  window. 
Earlier,  Jean  had  turned  on  the  porch  lights  and  sat 
under  them  in  the  most  graceful  of  the  wicker  chairs, 
reading,  or  affecting  to  read,  and  Frank,  coming 
down  the  street,  had  seen  her  in  all  that  glow. 
Then  they  had  turned  off  the  lights  and  gone  away 
together,  and  the  house  had  sunk  into  shadowy 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  155 

repose.  Vague  lines  of  wanness  betrayed  the  place 
of  the  cement  walks.  The  fruit-trees  were  dim,  with 
drawn,  half-hinted  shapes  of  whiteness,  but  their 
perfume,  grown  bolder  in  darkness,  wandered  the 
winds  with  poignant,  sweet  desire. 

Margaret  leaned  against  the  weather-worn  corner- 
post  of  the  porch;  her  hand  passed  over  its  cracked, 
paint-blistered  surface  with  a  soft,  absent  touch. 
She  felt  to  her  finger-tips  the  wooing  lure  of  the 
night.  In  the  spring  of  her  pulses  she  was  aware  of 
Frank  and  Jean  somewhere  together  in  the  dusky, 
fragrant,  crescent-clasped  folds  of  it.  She  seemed 
to  draw  in  with  her  breath  and  gather  subtly  through 
the  pores  of  her  flesh  all  the  shy,  sweet,  youthful 
yearning  of  the  world  —  and,  behind  that,  word 
lessly  she  knew  the  driven  sap,  the  life-call,  the  pro- 
creant  urge.  She  sighed  and  stirred  restlessly.  The 
strand  of  pain  that  runs  in  the  pleasure  of  such 
moods  began  to  ache  gently  like  an  old  wound 
touched  with  foreknowledge  of  evil  weather.  She 
shared  the  pang  that  lies  at  the  heart  of  spring. 

Words  of  poetry  pressed  into  her  mind,  voices  of 
the  great  interpreters.  She  was  not  a  cultivated 
woman,  hardly  to  be  called  educated;  her  horizon, 
even  of  books,  was  chance-formed  and  narrow;  but 
what  circumstance  had  given  her  she  remembered 
well.  The  groping,  vain  longing  that  stirred  in  her 


156  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

fell  on  speech,  and  moved  among  the  haunted  echoes 
of  the  world. 

"  Bloomy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same  — 
Framework  that  waits  for  a  picture  to  frame." 

And  then,  sudden  as  a  cry: 

"  Never  the  time  and  the  place, 
And  the  loved  one  all  together !  " 

She  drew  a  long,  shivering  sigh,  and  deliberately 
thrust  the  lines  out  of  her  mind.  Best  not  to  remem 
ber  them  —  on  such  a  night!  Their  edges  cut  like 
young  grass  drawn  through  careless  fingers. 

The  little  new  moon  was  rising  higher  in  the  deep, 
soft  blue-darkness  of  the  sky.  Margaret  looked  up 
at  its  gleaming  curve,  and  other  words  of  poetry 
came  to  her,  words  she  had  read  once  in  an  old 
magazine  —  translated  from  the  Persian : 

"  Quaffing  Hadji-Kivam's  wine-cup,  there  I  saw  by  grace 

of  him, 
On  the  green  sea  of  the  night,  the  new  moon's  silver 

shallop  swim !  " 

They  swung  on,  like  a  familiar,  wistful,  passionate 
tune: 

"  Oh,  my  heart  is  like  a  tulip,  closing  up  in  time  of  cold! 
When,  at  length,  shy  Bird  of  Fortune,  shall  my  snare  thy 
wings  enfold  ?  " 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  157 

Footsteps  sounded  along  the  walk,  the  linked  steps 
of  two,  lingering,  yet  with  the  springing  fall  of 
youth;  then  a  murmur  of  voices,  girl's  and  boy's 
interchanging,  lingering,  too,  and  low,  weighted,  like 
the  footsteps,  with  the  burden  of  their  hour.  Mar 
garet  drew  back  a  little  behind  the  sapless  vine-stems. 
She  knew  that  she  could  not  be  seen  in  the  shadow 
of  the  porch,  even  by  a  passer  far  less  absorbed  than 
the  two  who  drifted  by.  She  had  recognized  Frank 
and  Jean  at  once,  and  thrilled  intimately  at  the  quality 
of  their  voices.  Both  were  changed  from  the  careless 
tones  of  every  day,  Frank's  husky  and  strained, 
Jean's  vibrant  and  tremulous.  What  they  said  was 
quite  inaudible  —  only  that  betraying  timbre,  con 
scious  and  unconscious,  hung  on  the  scented  air.  A 
single  word  in  the  girl's  thrilled  voice  —  a  sharpened, 
quivering  note  of  life  at  high  tension  —  pierced  the 
shadows  of  the  porch: 


"  '  You  !'  '  Margaret  leaned  forward  among  her 
shadows,  thrusting  her  clenched  hands  downward, 
then  pressed  them  tight  upon  her  heart.  "You!" 
That  little  key  unlocked  the  flood-gates.  The  barriers 
went  down,  and  the  tide  of  passionate  loneliness 
swept  her  soul. 

"You!"  she  whispered  to  the  fragrant,  shimmer 
ing,  vitalizing  night;  and  the  word  mocked  her,  and 
returned  unto  her  void.  She  leaned  her  bosom 


158  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

against  the  angled  surface  of  the  porch-post;  she 
pressed  her  face  among  the  dry,  unbudded  vines. 
The  cry  went  out  from  her  into  the  empty  spaces  of 
the  world  —  a  voiceless,  hopeless  call :  "  You !  you ! 
you !  Oh,  you  who  never  came  to  me !  " 

Her  soul  was  ravaged  by  that  mocking  bitterness 
of  loss  which  comes  only  to  those  who  have  not  pos 
sessed.  She,  crying  for  a  lover  in  the  night,  she 
who  had  never  been  sought!  If  ever  her  shy  and 
homely  girlhood  might  have  attracted  a  youth,  poor 
Margaret's  love  of  poetry  would  have  frightened  him 
away.  If  the  burdened  poverty  of  her  maturity 
might  have  admitted  a  suitor,  her  acquaintance  num 
bered  no  man  who  would  not  have  shunned  an 
earnest-minded  old  maid.  And  she  knew  this  utterly. 
A  thousand  old  aches  were  in  the  sudden  rush  of 
anguish,  and  shame  fought  among  them.  She  was 
shocked  and  startled  at  the  drip  of  salt  tears  down 
her  cheeks,  at  the  heaving  of  her  shaken  breast. 

She  struggled  to  rebuild  her  old  barriers  against 
the  woe  —  pride,  and  dignity,  and  the  decent  accept 
ance  of  one's  lot.  But  those  were  for  the  eyes  of 
men  and  women;  and  here  were  no  eyes,  only  night, 
and  the  risen  sap  and  the  wild  heart  in  her  breast. 
Duty?  She  had  never  swerved  in  doing  it,  but  she 
thrust  the  thought  by  with  passionate  rebellion  at  the 
waste  of  her  in  dull  service  to  the  outworn  lives 
which  neither  asked  nor  could  take  from  her  anything 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  159 

but  the  daily  drudgery.  She  groped  for  the  old 
humble  consolations,  tender  appreciations,  generous 
friendships,  the  joy  in  others'  joy.  But  there  the 
wall  had  broken  through.  "  I  am  nothing  to  them !  " 
thought  Margaret  bitterly.  "  Jean  will  not  care  to 
talk  to  me  after  to-night.  And  I  can't  always  kiss 
other  people's  babies !  I  want  one  of  my  own !  " 

The  gauzy  veil  of  dream  that  wrapped  her  often 
had  fallen  from  before  her  eyes.  Rent  by  the  piercing 
beauty  of  the  night,  and  soaked  in  her  tears,  that 
fragile  fabric  of  vision  served  no  more.  Imagined 
blisses  had  betrayed  her,  naked  and  tender,  to  the 
unpitying  lash  of  truth.  The  remote,  the  universal, 
mocked  her  sore  longing  for  something  near  and  real, 
of  earth  and  flesh  —  oh,  as  welcome  in  sorrow  as  in 
joy!  —  to  be  imperiously  her  own!  The  river  of 
life  dashed  by  and  would  not  fill  her  empty  cup.  The 
love  she  loved  so  had  passed  her  by. 

She  faced  the  hollowest  desolation  known  to 
humanity.  She  had  committed  no  sin;  she  had  been 
true  and  tender  and  faithful;  she  had  not  failed  in 
the  least  and  humblest  dues  of  love:  yet,  now  she 
stood  wrapped  in  torment,  and  saw,  across  a  great 
gulf  fixed,  the  joys  of  love's  elect.  She  stood  utterly 
frustrate  and  alone  —  a  shared  frustration  were  hap 
piness!  Her  mental  life  had  been  so  intensely  uncom- 
panioned  that  she  was  tortured  with  doubts  of  her 
own  reality.  What  warrant  of  Being  had  that  soul 


160  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

which  could  not  touch  in  all  the  blank,  black  spaces 
of  the  void  another  soul  to  give  it  assurance  of  itself  ? 
What  if  the  aching  throat  and  riven  breast  were  but 
the  phantom  anguish  of  a  dream  Thing,  unpurposed, 
unjustified,  a  Thing  of  ashes  and  emptiness! 

There  remained  God  —  perhaps !  Was  God  a 
dream  too?  Was  there  any  You  in  all  the  empty 
worlds  ? 

She  stood  quite  still,  questing  the  universe  for  God. 
She  thought  of  her  father's  God  —  the  savage 
Hebrew  deity  he  thought  he  worshiped,  the  harsh 
Puritan  formalist  who  ruled  his  creed,  the  hysterical, 
illogical  sentimentalist  who  swayed  his  heart.  She 
dropped  them  all  out  of  her  mind.  God  was  not, 
for  her,  in  the  ancient  earthquake  or  fire  or  whirl 
wind.  But  —  perhaps  —  somewhere ! 

She  sank  to  her  knees  in  the  darkness,  and,  laying 
her  head  upon  her  arms  on  the  railing,  sought  in  her 
soul  for  God. 

"  You  are  Love,"  she  said.  "  Thej  say  it,  but  they 
do  not  believe  it;  but  /  believe  it.  You  are  Love 
that  creates,  and  makes  glad  —  and  wounds.  You 
are  Love  that  rises  in  all  creatures  in  spring,  and 
would  make  all  things  beautiful  and  kind.  You  are 
Love  that  gives  —  and  gives  itself.  You  made  me 
to  love  love  and  love's  uses,  and  nothing  else  in  the 
world!  You  made  my  life  loveless.  Why?" 

She  waited  a  moment,  then,  with  a  sobbing  breath 


Laura  L.  Hinkley  161 

of  remembrance,   "  Oh,  one  spring  they  nailed  you 
on  a  cross  because  you  loved  too  much !  " 

After  that  she  was  very  still,  her  head  bent  upon 
her  arms,  her  heart  quiet,  waiting  for  the  still,  small 
voice,  the  answer  of  God. 

It  came  presently,  and  she  knew  it  was  the  answer. 
She  accepted  it  with  comfort,  and  sad  pride,  and  sub 
mission,  and  a  slow,  strange,  white  happiness  of  con 
secration.  The  answer  came  without  any  words.  If 
there  had  been  words,  they  might  have  been,  perhaps, 
like  these : 

"  Bear  the  pain  patiently,  my  daughter,  for  life 
is  wrought  in  pain,  and  there  is  no  child  born  with 
out  sharp  pangs.  I  have  not  shut  thee  out  from  my 
festival  of  spring.  Thy  part  is  thy  pang.  I  have 
given  thee  a  coronal  of  pain  and  made  thee  rich  with 
loss  and  desire.  I  have  made  thee  one  of  my  vestals 
who  guard  perpetually  the  hearth-fire  which  shall  not 
be  lit  for  them.  I  have  denied  thee  love  that  love 
shall  be  manifest  in  thee.  Wherever  love  fails  in  my 
world,  there  shalt  thou  re-create  it  in  beauty  and 
kindness.  The  vision  thou  hast,  and  the  passion,  are 
of  me,  and  I  charge  thee  find  some  fair  and  sweet 
way  that  they  perish  not  in  thee.  All  ways  are  mine. 
Be  thou  in  peace." 

Margaret  rose  at  length.  The  moon  was  gone 
from  the  sky,  but  out  of  its  deep,  tender  darkness 
shone  the  far,  dim  light  of  stars.  A  cool  wind 


162  The  Spirit  of  Spring 

touched  her  cheek,  bearing  a  faint,  ethereal  odor  of 
blossoms  as  from  a  great  distance.  And  upon  her 
face,  if  one  might  have  seen  for  the  darkness,  shone 
a  fine,  ethereal  beauty  far-brought  from  that  great 
distance  which  is  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

Against  the  shadowy  front  of  the  house  opposite, 
two  figures  were  vaguely  discernible,  the  taller  a  little 
darker  than  the  encompassing  space,  the  other  a  little 
lighter.  As  Margaret  looked,  they  melted  together, 
and  were  no  longer  two  but  one. 

She  smiled  in  the  darkness,  very  sweetly,  and, 
holding  her  head  high,  turned  and  went  quietly  into 
the  dark  little  house. 


Work  Is  a  Blessing 

By  Lafayette  Young 

Work  is  a  blessing  to  the  human  race. 

If  this  had  remained  a  workless  world,  it  would 
have  been  a  homeless  world.  The  progress  of  the 
human  race  began  when  work  began.  When  work 
began,  men  began  to  wear  clothes;  thus  progress 
commenced. 

Industry  and  happiness  go  hand  in  hand. 

Men  who  feel  that  they  are  doomed  to  daily  toil, 
and  that  there  is  no  so-called  emancipation  from  the 
daily  routine,  imagine  that  happiness  would  be  theirs 
if  they  did  not  have  to  work.  The  man  whose  em 
ployment  compels  him  to  get  up  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning  imagines  if  he  could  just  get  out  of  that 
slavery  he  would  ask  for  no  greater  happiness.  But 
if  he  ever  does  reach  that  condition  he  will  find  out 
what  true  misery  is. 

Some  years  ago  the  warden  of  the  Iowa  peni 
tentiary  told  me  that  he  had  a  prisoner  serving  a  long 
term,  who  begged  a  day  off.  He  wanted  to  stop  the 
regular  routine.  He  wanted  to  be  set  free  in  the  court 
yard  for  one  day.  He  wanted  to  look  straight  up  at 

163 


164  Work  Is  a  Blessing 

the  sky,  and  to  breathe  the  air  of  the  outdoors.  I  was 
at  the  penitentiary  the  day  the  prisoner's  request  was 
granted,  and  at  ten  o'clock  the  prisoner  had  grown 
tired  of  idleness.  The  sky  had  lost  its  attraction. 
There  was  something  missing.  And  he  got  word  to 
the  warden  that  he  wished  to  be  returned  to  labor. 

There  are  millions  of  men  toiling  in  factories  and 
in  mines,  laying  brick  on  tall  buildings,  swinging 
cranes  in  the  great  iron  mills,  tending  the  machines  in 
cotton  or  woolen  mills,  who  think  that  they  would  be 
perfectly  happy  if  they  were  once  perfectly  idle.  But 
their  experience  would  be  like  that  of  the  prisoner's. 

What  a  wretched  world  this  would  be  without 
work!  How  many  things  we  have  which  are  indis 
pensable,  that  we  would  not  have  but  for  somebody's 
work.  Work  has  built  every  great  bridge,  every 
great  cathedral,  every  home,  large  or  small.  It  has 
made  every  invention.  Work  found  man  in  a  cave, 
and  put  him  into  a  good  home.  Work  has  made  man 
decent  and  self-respecting. 

The  great  nations  are  the  working  nations;  the 
great  peoples  are  the  working  peoples.  Nations,  like 
individuals,  date  their  prosperity  and  happiness  from 
the  beginning  of  work.  The  start  was  made  when 
man  gave  attention  to  the  primal  curse  of  the  race 
recorded  in  the  book  of  Genesis :  "  By  the  sweat  of 
thy  face  shalt  thou  eat  bread,  until  thou  return  to  the 
ground."  This  mandate  has  never  been  repealed. 


Lafayette  Young  165 

Lazy  men  in  all  parts  of  the  world  have  undertaken  to 
nullify  it.  The  ambition  for  idleness  fills  jails  and 
penitentiaries.  It  causes  man  to  commit  forgeries 
and  murders.  Every  man  slugged  in  a  dark  alley  is 
put  out  of  the  way  by  some  other  man  desiring  money 
without  working  for  it. 

There  has  been  a  foolish  notion  in  many  countries 
in  regard  to  labor.  They  do  not  consider  it  dignified. 
In  some  countries,  missionary  families  learn  that  they 
cannot  cook  their  own  victuals  without  losing  caste. 
In  other  countries  a  certain  number  of  servants  must 
be  kept  if  the  family  would  be  respected.  In  our  own 
country  there  is  a  false  pride  in  regard  to  labor. 
Young  men  avoid  the  learning  of  trades  because  they 
do  not  wish  to  soil  their  hands.  Laboring  men  them 
selves  have  been  guilty  of  not  sufficiently  estimating 
their  own  callings.  They  demand  the  rights  of  their 
class,  but  fail  to  respect  it  themselves.  This  causes 
many  young  men  to  seek  some  employment  which  will 
not  soil  their  hands.  Many  thousands  of  young  men 
make  the  mistake  of  not  having  some  regular  calling, 
some  work  which  they  can  do  better  than  anybody 
else.  The  man  who  has  a  regular  trade  is  never 
found  walking  the  streets  looking  for  a  job.  Even 
when  he  is  called  old,  he  can  secure  employment. 

Industry  is  indispensable  to  happiness.  Idleness 
destroys  the  souls  of  more  young  men,  and  leads  to 
more  forms  of  dissipation,  than  any  other  influence. 


166  Work  Is  a  Blessing 

The  experienced  mechanic  knows  how  rapidly  and 
joyfully  time  passes  when  he  is  interested  in  his  work. 
He  never  watches  the  clock;  to  him  quitting  time 
comes  all  too  soon. 

Labor  can  be  made  a  joy  if  man  wills  it  so. 

An  appreciation  of  what  a  man  earns  and  the 
thought  that  he  can  do  something  with  his  money, 
ought  to  be  a  part  of  the  happiness  of  labor.  Work 
develops  the  man.  It  develops  his  appreciation  of 
others.  He  is  likely  to  be  unhappy  if  he  works 
solely  for  himself.  The  Indian  hunter,  returning 
from  the  chase,  lays  the  evidence  of  his  prowess  at 
the  feet  of  his  squaw.  He  is  glad  that  he  has  accom 
plished  something,  and  in  her  eyes  he  is  a  hero. 

Once  I  was  driving  in  the  Allegheny  Mountains  in 
the  early  summer.  Unexpectedly  I  came  to  a  little 
cottage  almost  covered  with  flowers  and  vines.  A 
brown-faced  woman  with  pruning  shears  was  at  her 
work.  Around  her  bees  were  humming,  and  birds 
were  twittering.  I  sought  to  buy  some  flowers.  She 
said  she  never  had  sold  a  flower  in  her  life.  I  asked 
her  what  induced  her  to  work  early  and  late,  culti 
vating,  planting  and  pruning.  She  said,  "  I  do  this 
work  because  I  enjoy  it,  and  because  my  husband  and 
two  sons  will  enjoy  these  flowers  when  they  come 
home  at  night."  This  woman  had  the  whole  phil 
osophy  of  human  happiness.  If  there  are  women  in 
heaven  she  will  be  there. 


Lafayette  Young  167 

Work  came  as  a  blessing.  It  remains  as  a  blessing. 
It  makes  us  tired  so  that  we  can  enjoy  sleep.  We 
awaken  in  the  morning  refreshed  for  a  new  day. 
When  kings  and  queens  shall  be  no  more,  when 
autocracy  shall  end,  when  the  voices  of  intelligent 
men  and  women  shall  govern,  then  if  work  shall  be 
universal,  thus  satisfying  the  energy,  and  giving  direc 
tion  to  the  ambitions  of  men,  there  will  be  no  more 
wars. 

To  make  work  enjoyable,  men  and  women  must  be 
proud  of  it;  must  not  pretend  that  they  are  above  it; 
must  not  apologize  for  it.  Once  I  was  in  Holland. 
I  saw  women  with  a  peculiar  headdress  as  if  they 
belonged  to  some  lodge.  They  wore  smiling  faces. 
I  inquired  what  their  regalia  meant,  and  was  told  that 
they  were  working  women  of  the  peasant  or  some 
other  humble  class.  They  were  proud  of  their  posi 
tion.  They  were  content,  with  plenty  to  do.  They 
enjoyed  the  society  of  their  families  and  friends.  But 
their  happiness  consisted  in  being  proud  of,  and  satis 
fied  with,  the  things  they  were  doing.  Who  can  say 
that  they  have  not  chosen  the  better  part? 


September 

By  Esse  V .  Hathaway 

Blaze  on  blaze  of  scarlet  sumach, 
Roadsides  lined  with  radiant  gold, 

Purple  ironweed,  regal,  slender, 
Rasping  locust,  shrill  and  bold. 

Dusty  smell  in  field  and  upland, 
Sky  of  copper  mixed  with  blue, 

Life  intense  as  is  the  weather  — 
Let's  away,  just  me  and  you ! 


168 


HOST   AND  HOUSEGUEST 

"  I  say,  old  top,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  continually 
kissing  the  wife.  I  think  once  when  you  come  and 
once  when  you  go  quite  sufficient." 

"  But,  my  dear  man,  I  can't  wear  myself  out  com 
ing  and  going  all  the  time  just  to  please  you." 

—  From  "Judge"    Copyright  by  Leslie-Judge  Co. 


The  Poet  of  the  Future 

By  Tacitus  Hussey 

Oh,  the  poet  of  the  future.    Will  he  come  to  us  as  comes 
The  beauty  of  the  bugle's  voice  above  the  roar  of  drums — 
The  beauty  of  the  bugle's  voice  above  the  roar  and  din 
Of  battle  drums  that  pulse  the  time  the  victor  marches  in? 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

"  Oh,  the  poet  of  the  future !  "     Can  anybody  guess 
Whether  he'll  sound  his  bugle,  or  she'll  wear  them  on 

her  dress; 
An'  will  they  kinder  get  their  themes  from  nature, 

second  hand, 
An'  dish  'em  up  in  language  that  plain   folks  can't 

understand  ? 

There's  a  sight  of  this  'ere  po'try  stuff,  each  year, 

that  goes  to  waste, 

Jest  a-waitin'  fer  a  poet  who  has  the  time  and  taste 
To  tackle  it  just  as  it  is,  an'  weave  it  into  rhyme, 
With   warp   and   woof   of   hope  and   love,    in   life's 

swift  loom  of  time. 

An'   mebbe  the   future  poet,   if   he  understands  the 
thing, 

171 


172  The  Poet  of  the  Future 

Won't  start  the  summer  katydids  to  singin'  in  the 

spring, 
Jest  like  the  croakin'  frog;  but  let  the  critter  wait  at 

most, 
To  announce  to  timid    farmers  that   "  it's  jest   six 

weeks  till  frost." 

The  katydid  and  goldenrod  are  partners  in  this  way: 
They  sing  and  bloom  where'er  there's  room,  along 

life's  sunny  way; 
So  I  warn  you,  future  poet,  jest  let  'em  bloom  an' 

lilt 
Together  —  don't  divorce  'em.     That's  jest  the  way 

they're  built. 

In  order  to  be  perfect,  the  future  poet  should 
Know  every  sound  of  nature,  of  river,  lake  an'  wood, 
Should  know  each  whispered  note  and  every  answerin' 

call  — 
He  should  never  set  cock-pheasants  to  drummin'  in 

the  fall. 

"  Under  the  golden  maples !  "     Not  havin'  voice  to 

sing 
They  flap  their  love  out  on  a  log  quite  early  in  the 

spring; 
For  burnin'  love  will  allus  find  expression  in  some 

way  — 


Tacitus  Hussey  173 

That's  the  style  that  they've  adopted  —  don't  change 
their  natures,  pray. 

I  cannot  guess  just  what  the   future  poet's  themes 

may  be; 

Reckon  they'll  be  pretty  lofty,  fer,  as  anyone  can  see, 
The  world  of  poetry's  lookin'  up  an'  poets  climbin' 

higher; 
With   divine   afflatus   boostin'   them,   of   course   they 

must  aspire. 

The  poets  of  the  good  old  times  were  cruder  with 

the  pen; 
Their  idees  weren't  the  same  as  ours  —  these  good 

old-fashioned  men  — 

Bet  old  Homer  never  writ,  even  in  his  palmiest  day, 
Such    a    soul-upliftin'    poem    as    "  Hosses    Chawin' 

Hay." 

"  Hosses  "  don't  know  any  better  out  in  the  Hawkeye 

State  — 
Down  to   Boston  now,   I   reckon,   they   jest   simply 

masticate. 

The  poet  of  the  future'll  blow  a  bugle,  like  as  not  — 
Most  all  us  modern  poets  had  to  blow  fer  what  we've 

got. 

To  keep  the  pot  a-b'ilin'  we  all  have  to  raise  a  din 


174  The  Poet  of  the  Future 

To  make  the  public  look   our   way  —  an'   pass  the 

shekels  in. 

The  scarcity  of  bugles  seems  now  the  greatest  lack 
Though  some  of  us  keep  blowin'  'thout  a  bugle  to  our 

back. 

The  poet  of  the   future !     When  once  he  takes  his 

theme 
His  pen  will  slip  as  smoothly  as  a  canoe  glides  down 

stream. 
He'll  sing  from  overflowin'  heart  —  his  music  will  be 

free  — 
Would  you  take  up  a  subscription  fer  a  robin  in  a 

tree? 

He'll  never  try  to  drive  the  Muse,  if  he  doesn't  want 

to  go, 
But  will  promptly  take  the   harness   off  —  er  drive 

keer  fully  an'   slow  — 
When  po'try's  forced,  like  winter  pinks,  the  people's 

apt  to  know  it 
An'  labor  with  it  jest  about  as  hard  as  did  the  poet. 


Putting  the  Stars  with  the  Bars 

By   Verne  Marshall 

Midnight  beneath  a  low-hanging  strip  of  amber- 
hued  moon.  Smoke  in  one's  eyes  and  sulphur  in  his 
nostrils;  the  pounding  of  cannon  in  his  ears  and  a 
hatred  of  war  and  its  sponsors  in  his  soul.  A  supply 
wagon  piled  high  with  dead  men  on  one  side  of  the 
road  and  a  little  ambulance  waiting  for  its  bruised 
load  to  emerge  from  the  mouth  of  the  communicating 
trench  near  by.  Sharp  tongues  of  fire  darting  into 
the  night  on  every  side  as  the  guns  of  the  French 
barked  their  challenge  at  the  Crown  Prince  on  the 
other  bank  of  the  Meuse.  A  lurid  glare  over  there 
to  the  left  where  the  smoke  hung  thickest  under 
drifting  yellow  illuminating  bombs  and  red  and  blue 
signal  bombs  that  added  their  touch  to  the  weird 
fantasy  that  wasn't  a  fantasy  at  all,  but  a  hill  in 
whose  spelling  men  had  changed  one  letter  and 
turned  it  into  hell. 

It  was  Dead  Man's  Hill  at  Verdun  —  Le  Cote  Mort 
Homme.  And  Dead  Man's  Hill  it  truly  was,  for 
among  the  barbed  wire  entanglements  and  in  some  of 
the  shell  craters  in  No  Man's  Land  there  still  lay  the 

175 


176     Putting  the  Stars  With  the  Bars 

skeletons  of  Frenchmen  and  Germans  who  had  been 
killed  there  months  before  and  whose  bodies  it  had 
been  impossible  to  recover  because  the  trenches  had 
not  changed  positions  and  to  venture  out  between 
them  was  to  shake  hands  with  Death. 

Dead  Man's  Hill  at  Verdun  —  where  ten  thousand 
men  have  fought  for  a  few  feet  of  blood-soaked 
ground  in  vain  effort  to  satiate  the  battle-thirst  of  a 
monarch  and  his  son!  The  countryside  for  miles 
around  is  laid  waste.  Villages  lie  in  tumbled  masses, 
trees  are  uprooted  or  broken  off,  demolished  wagons 
and  motors  litter  the  roads  and  fields,  and  dead  horses, 
legs  stiff  in  the  air,  dot  the  jagged  landscape.  Not  a 
moving  object  is  seen  there  by  day  except  the  crows 
that  flutter  above  the  uptorn  ground  and  the  aero 
planes  that  soar  thousands  of  feet  above.  But,  with 
the  coming  of  night,  long  columns  of  men  wind  along 
the  treacherous  roads  on  their  way  to  or  from  the 
trenches,  hundreds  of  supply  wagons  lumber  across 
the  shell  holes  to  the  stations  near  the  line,  ammuni 
tion  trains  travel  up  to  the  lines  and  back  and  the 
ambulances  ply  their  routes  to  dressing  stations. 
Everything  must  be  done  under  night's  partially  pro 
tecting  cloak,  for  the  German  gunners  seldom  miss 
when  daylight  aids  their  vision. 

A  tiny  American  ambulance  —  a  jitney  —  threads 

its  way  down  from  the  Dead  Man  to  , 

carrying  a  boy  through   whose   breast   a   dum-dum 


Verne  Marshall  177 

bullet  had  torn  its  beastly  way.  Three  hours  before, 
the  driver  of  that  ambulance  had  talked  with  the  boy 
who  now  lay  behind  him  on  a  stretcher.  Then  the 
young  Frenchman  had  been  looking  forward  to  the 
wondrous  day  when  the  war  would  end.  He  had 
planned  to  come  to  America  to  live,  just  as  soon  as 
he  could  get  back  to  Paris  and  say  good-bye  to  the 
mother  from  whom  he  had  received  a  letter  that 
very  day. 

"  I  will  be  lucky !  "  he  had  exclaimed  to  the  Ameri 
can.  "  I  will  not  be  killed.  I  will  not  even  be 
wounded.  Ah,  but  won't  I  be  glad  when  the  war 
is  over!  " 

But  his  life  was  slipping  away,  faster  than  the  Red 
Cross  car  could  carry  him  to  aid.  The  checking 
station  reached,  two  orderlies  pulled  the  stretcher 
from  the  ambulance.  There  was  a  choking  sound 
in  the  wounded  soldier's  throat  and  the  driver,  think 
ing  to  ease  his  breathing,  lifted  his  head.  The  closed 
eyes  fluttered  open,  the  indescribable  smile  of  the 
dying  lighted  his  face  and  with  his  last  faint  breath 
he  murmured  those  words  that  always  still  war 
momentarily  — 

"Ah,  mere!   Ma  mere!" 

"  Oh,  mother !     My  mother !  "  —  and  he  was  dead. 

Just  one  little  incident  of  war,  just  a  single  glimpse 
at  the  accomplishments  of  monarchial  militarism. 

That  French  boy  has  not  come  to  America,  but 


178     Putting  the  Stars  With  the  Bars 

America  has  gone  to  him.  He  died  for  a  flag  that  is 
red,  white  and  blue  —  for  the  tricolor  of  France. 
And  we  have  gone  across  the  sea  to  place  the  stars 
of  our  flag  with  the  bars  of  his.  His  fight  was  our 
fight  and  our  fight  is  his.  Together  we  fight  against 
those  who  menace  civilization  in  both  old  world  and 
new.  We  fight  against  the  army  that  outraged  Bel 
gium  and  devastated  France,  against  the  militaristic 
clique  that  sanctioned  the  slaughtering  and  crippling 
of  little  children,  the  maiming  of  women,  against 
that  order  of  militarists  who  decorated  the  commander 
of  the  submarine  that  sank  the  Lusitania  with  her 
babies  and  their  mothers. 

We   are   at   war   and   we   are   Americans     .     .     . 
Enough. 

Verne  Marshall  was  the  driver  of  that  ambulance. 
Three  months  of  his  service  were  spent  at  Verdun. 


The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

By  Lewis  Worthington  Smith 
A  SCENE  FROM  THE  FIRST  ACT 

A  drama  of  the  awakening  of  the  nearer 
Orient.  In  this  scene  Nasrulla  appears  as 
the  royal  lover  of  the  fig  merchant's  daugh 
ter,  Nourmahal.  She  has  learned  some 
thing  of  the  ways  of  the  West,  where  even 
kings  have  but  one  acknowledged  consort, 
and  she  is  not  willing  to  be  merely  one  of 
a  number  of  queens. 

Before  the  wall  and  gate  enclosing  Nourmahars  Gar 
den.  It  is  early  morning,  just  before  dawn.  Above  the 
gleaming  white  of  the  wall's  sun-baked  clay  there  is  the 
deep  green  of  the  trees  —  the  plane,  the  poplar,  the  acacia, 
and,  beyond  the  garden,  mountains  are  visible  through 
the  purple  mist  of  the  hour  that  waits  for  dawn,  slowly 
turning  to  rose  as  the  rising  sun  warms  their  snowy 
heights.  At  the  left  the  wall  extends  out  of  sight 
behind  a  clump  of  trees,  but  at  the  right  it  ends  in  a 
tower  topped  by  a  turret  with  a  rounded  dome  passing 
into  a  point.  The  space  under  the  dome  is  open,  except 
for  a  railing,  and  is  large  enough  for  one  or  more  per- 

179 


180  The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

sons.  It  may  be  entered  from  the  broad  top  of  the  wall 
through  a  break  in  the  railing.  At  the  left,  out  from  the 
trees  and  in  front  of  the  wall,  there  is  a  well  marked  out 
with  roughly  piled  stones. 

At  the  right,  out  of  sight  behind  the  trees  that  come 
almost  to  the  tower  at  the  corner  of  the  wall,  a  man's 
voice  is  heard  singing  Shelley's  "  Indian  Serenade." 

"I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright; 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  something  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ? 

To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet! 

"The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
The  Champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart;  — 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

O !  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

"Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

I  die!     I  faint!     I  fail! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith          181 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast;  — 
Oh!  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last." 

During  the  singing  Nourmahal  has  come  slowly  out 
from  the  left,  walking  along  the  broad  top  of  the  wall 
until,  coming  to  the  tower,  she  drops  down  on  the  floor 
by  the  railing  of  the  turret  and  listens,  her  veil  falling 
from  before  her  face.  When  the  song  has  ended,  Nas- 
rulla  comes  forward  and  approaches  the  little  tower. 
He  leads  a  horse,  a  white  horse  with  its  tail  dyed  red  in 
the  Persian  fashion. 

Nourmahal.     You  turn  the  gray  of  the  poplars  in 

the  darkness  into  the  silver  of  running  water. 
King  Nasrulla.     The   dawn   is   waiting   under   your 

veil.     I  see  now  only  the  morning  star. 
Nourmahal.     I  am  but  the  moon,  and  I  must  not  be 

seen  when  My  Lord  the  Sun  comes. 
King  Nasrulla.     The  Lord  of  the  Sky  rises  to  look 

on  the  gardens  where  the  nightingales  have  been 

singing. 
Nourmahal.     But  when  he  finds  that  the  nightingales 

are  silent,  he  passes  to  other  gardens. 
King  Nasrulla.     Following  the  song,  as  I  follow  the 

lisp  of  spring  in  your  voice,  the  flutter  of  the  wings 

of  birds  in  the  branches  when  buds  are  swelling. 
Nourmahal.  It  is  the  flutter  of  wings  and  the  song 

that  you  care  for;  it  is  not  the  bird. 
King  Nasrulla.     It  is  the  song  of  the  bird  that  tells 


182  The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

me  where  I  shall  find  the  bird  herself.  It  is  the 
oasis  lifted  up  into  the  sky  that  guides  the  thirsty 
traveler  across  the  desert. 

Nourmahal  (rising  in  agitation).  When  I  am  your 
queen,  will  you  follow  the  voices  of  other  night 
ingales  ? 

King  Nasrulla.     You  will  be  my  first  queen. 

Nourmahal.     I  must  be  your  only  queen. 

King  Nasrulla.  Always  my  first  queen,  and  in  your 
garden  the  fountains  shall  murmur  day  and  night 
with  a  fuller  flow  of  water  than  any  others.  The 
flowers  there  shall  be  more  beautiful  than  any 
where  else  in  all  the  world,  and  a  hundred  maidens 
shall  serve  you. 

Nourmahal.     And  I  shall  not  be  your  only  queen? 

King  Nasrulla.     It  is  not  the  way  of  the  world. 

Nourmahal.  I  have  heard  stories  of  places  where 
the  king  has  only  one  queen. 

King  Nasrulla.     It  has  never  been  so  in  Saranazett. 

Nourmahal.  It  has  not  been  so  in  Saranazett,  but 
does  nothing  change? 

King  Nasrulla.  I  must  be  king  in  the  way  of  my 
ancestors. 

Nourmahal  (dropping  down  by  the  railing  again). 
And  we  must  live  in  the  way  of  our  ancestors,  over 
and  over  again,  sunrise  and  noon-glare  and  star- 
shine,  as  it  was  before  our  stars  rose  in  the  heavens, 
as  it  always  will  be? 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith          183 

King  Nasrulla.     Our  ancestors  have  taught  us  that 

a  king  should  not  live  too  meanly. 
Nourmahal.     We    cannot    appeal    to    our    ancestors. 

We  cannot  appeal  to  anything,  and  nothing  can  be 

undone.     As  the  Persian  poet  says,  "  The  moving 

finger  writes,"  and  what  is  written  must  be. 
King  Nasrulla.     And  if  what  is  written  is  beautiful, 

and  if  you  are  to  be  a  king's  throne-mate,  if  all 

the  treasures  of  all  the  world  are  to  be  sought  out 

for  you  — 
Nourmahal.     It  is  nothing,  nothing,  if  you  must  have 

another  wife,  if  you  must  have  two  other  wives, 

three. 
King  Nasrulla.     My  prime  minister  will  choose  the 

others.     I  choose  you. 
Nourmahal  (passionately).     But  what  shall  we  ever 

choose  again  —  and  get  what  we  choose  ?     Have 

not  the  hours  been  counted  out  for  us  from  the 

beginning  of  the  world?     Can  we  stop  the  grains 

of  sand  in  the  hour-glass? 
King  Nasrulla.     Each  one  will  make  a  new  pleasure 

as  it  falls. 
Nourmahal.     Yes,  but  it  falls.     We  do  not  gather  it 

up.     It  falls  out  of  the  heavens  as  the  rain  comes. 

We  cannot  make  it  rain. 

King  Nasrulla.     But  the  drops  are  always  pleasant. 
Nourmahal.     Yes,  like  a  cup  of  water  to  a  prisoner 

who  dies  of  thirst  and  cannot  know  when  his  jailer 


184  The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

comes.  If  we  could  bring  the  clouds  up  over  the 
sun  when  the  hot  dust  is  flying,  it  would  be  really 
pleasant,  but 

"  That  inverted  Bowl  we  call  the  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  coop'd  we  live  and  die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help  —  for  It 
As  impotently  moves  as  you  or  I." 
You  are  my  sky,  and  the  old  poet  is  right,  if  you 
must  have  four  wives  because  your  father  had  four 
wives,  and  his  father. 

King  Nasrulla.  They  are  but  symbols  of  kingliness, 
and  they  shall  bow  in  the  dust  before  you,  whom 
my  heart  chooses,  as  weeds  by  the  roadside  bow 
when  you  pass  in  your  tahktiravan  and  the  air 
follows  its  flying  curtains. 

Nourmahal.  Why  should  anyone  bow  to  me?  Why 
should  I  care  for  bowing?  It  would  make  me  a 
slave  to  the  custom  of  bowing.  Are  you  a  king 
and  must  you  be  a  slave  too?  Impotence  is  the 
name  of  such  kingship,  and  why  should  I  care  to 
be  a  queen  when  my  king  cannot  make  me  queenly  ? 

King  Nasrulla  (advancing  to  the  tower  and  leaving 
his  horse  standing).  Come!  The  stars  are  paling, 
and  there  is  only  the  light  of  your  eyes  to  lift  me 
out  of  the  dust.  Come! 

In  the  side  of  the  wall  by  the  tower  a  sloping 
series  of  stout  pegs  has  been  driven,  descending 
to  the  ground  at  short  intervals.  Nourmahal 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith  185 

comes  out  of  the  tower,  puts  her  foot  on  the 
highest  of  these  pegs,  takes  Nasrulla's  hand, 
and,  with  his  help,  comes  slowly  down  the  pegs, 
as  if  they  were  a  flight  of  stairs,  to  the  ground. 

Nourmahal.  How  I  love  a  horse!  It  is  Samarcand 
and  Delhi  and  Bokhara  and  Paris,  even  Paris. 

King  Nasrulla.     Paris!     What  is  Paris? 

Nourmahal  (standing  in  front  of  the  horse  and  caress 
ing  its  head).  I  don't  know.  I  have  never  been 
there,  but  a  horse  makes  me  think  of  Paris.  I 
don't  know  London,  but  a  horse  makes  me  think 
of  London  too.  A  horse  could  take  me  there. 
I  could  ride  and  ride,  and  every  day  there  would 
be  something  new  and  something  wonderful.  There 
are  cities  beyond  the  water,  too,  marvelous  cities, 
full  of  things  more  than  we  dream  of  here.  A 
horse  is  swift,  and  the  tapping  of  his  feet  on  the 
stones  is  distance.  When  he  lifts  his  head,  when 
he  curves  his  neck,  already  in  his  heart  he  is  going 
on  and  on. 

King  Nasrulla.  And  these  are  the  stories  that  you 
have  heard,  stories  about  Paris  and  London  and 
the  cities  across  the  water? 

Nourmahal.  Stories  ?  Perhaps  not  stories.  Dreams, 
I  think,  imaginings  dropped  from  the  wings  of 
falcons  flying  out  of  the  west. 

King  Nasrulla.  You  shall  sit  on  the  horse,  and  you 
can  seem  to  be  riding.  Then  as  your  dreams  come 


186  The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

true,  you  can  tell  them  to  me.  Let  the  horse  be 
Paris  in  my  fancies  too,  and  London  and  the  cities 
across  the  water. 

The  horse  is  still  standing  where  he  stopped 
when  Nasrulla  led  him  out  from  behind  the  trees 
with  him.  He  faces  toward  the  left,  and  Nas 
rulla  is  back  of  him.  Nourmahal  puts  her  foot 
into  Nasrulla's  hand,  and  he  lifts  her  into  the 
saddle.  When  she  is  comfortably  seated,  he 
stands  beside  her  and  in  front  of  her,  back  of 
the  horse,  leaning  against  the  horse's  neck  and 
caressing  his  shoulder. 

King  Nasrulla.  Now  we  are  on  the  road,  and  all  the 
world  is  moving  across  the  horizon.  If  it  is  all 
a  dream,  let  me  be  in  the  dream. 

Nourmahal  (looking  out  and  away  from  him  and 
pausing  a  moment).  Stories!  Dreams!  —  What 
I  have  heard  is  only  a  whisper,  but  it  seems  so 
true  and  so  beautiful.  Somewhere  a  man  loves 
one  woman  always  and  no  other.  Somewhere  a 
king  is  not  a  manikin  stalking  through  ceremonies. 
Somewhere  he  lives  humanly  as  other  men.  Some 
where  to-day  is  not  like  yesterday,  and  man  has 
learned  to  break  the  cycle  of  what  has  been  for 
ever,  of  what  seems  dead  and  yet  out  of  death 
comes  back  again  and  again.  I  have  not  seen  it, 
but  I  know  it.  Somewhere  you  and  I  could  be 
happy  without  being  king  or  queen.  Somewhere 
a  woman  thinks  her  own  thoughts,  and  not  the 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith          187 

thoughts  of  her  lord  only.  Somewhere  men  are 
not  bound  to  a  king,  and  somewhere  kings  are  not 
bound  to  the  words  of  their  fathers'  fathers. 

King  Nasrulla  (slowly,  after  a  pause).  It  is  the 
way  of  the  world,  Nourmahal.  What  the  world  is, 
it  is,  and  that  is  forever  and  ever,  unless  it  should 
be  the  will  of  God  to  make  a  new  world. 

Nourmahal.  A  new  world!  (She  pauses  dreamily.) 
Yes,  that  is  what  I  want,  a  new  world.  That  is 
what  men  are  making  somewhere,  I  know  it.  That 
is  what  is  in  my  heart,  and  the  same  thing  must  be 
in  the  hearts  of  other  men  and  women.  A  new 
world !  What  would  it  be  to  wake  up  every  morn 
ing  with  a  fresh  wonder,  not  knowing  what  the 
day  would  bring?  What  would  it  be  every  morn 
ing  to  take  the  saddle  and  follow  a  new  road  ahead 
of  the  sun? 

King  Nasrulla.     If  I  could  go  with  you  — 

Nourmahal.     You  have  horses. 

King  Nasrulla.  It  is  not  so  decreed.  My  place  is 
here. 

Nourmahal.  Your  place  is  here,  and  it  is  your  place 
to  have  three  or  four  queens  as  your  ministers 
decide  for  you.  One  queen  is  to  keep  peace  with 
the  King  of  the  South,  another  is  to  keep  peace 
with  the  King  of  the  West,  and  the  third  is  to 
keep  peace  with  the  King  of  the  East.  The  fourth 
queen  you  may  choose  for  yourself  from  your  own 


188  The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

people  —  if  you  choose  before  some  other  king 
offers  a  daughter.  You  may  make  slaves  of  your 
queens  so  that  your  neighbor  kings  may  make  a 
slave  of  you. 

King  Nasrulla.  Yes,  if  I  would  be  king  —  and  you 
would  be  queen. 

Nourmahal.  Queen !  —  in  a  world  where  the  flowers 
that  bloom  to-day  died  centuries  ago !  Queen  —  in 
a  world  where  queens  may  look  out  of  grated  win 
dows  and  never  walk  the  streets !  Queen  —  in  a 
world  where  My  Lord  the  King  may  not  come  to 
my  door  too  often  lest  the  daughter  of  the  King  of 
the  South  put  poison  in  the  nectar  that  her  slaves 
offer  him  to-morrow! 

King  Nasrulla.  The  world  is  the  world,  and  its 
enduring  is  forever  and  ever.  We  are  but  shadows 
that  change  and  break  on  the  surface  of  running 
water.  We  may  stand  for  a  moment  in  the  sun, 
but  we  cannot  stop  the  rain  that  fills  the  stream. 
We  cannot  fix  our  images  for  a  moment  on  the 
drops  that  are  rushing  out  to  the  sea. 

Nourmahal  (looking  away  from  him  dreamily). 
"  Ah  Love !  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  Entire, 
Would  we  not  shatter  it  to  bits  —  and  then 
Remould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  desire  ?  " 

He  looks  at  her  steadily,  but  she  does  not 
turn  her  head,  and,  while  they  are  so  silent,  a 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith          189 

woman  comes  from  the  left  with  a  water  jar, 
fills  it  from  the  well,  puts  it  on  her  head,  and 
passes  off  again.    The  sun  is  now  warming  the 
tops  of  the  mountains  to  a  soft  pink. 
King  Nasrulla.     We  must  find  the  water  where  it 

flows  —  or  go  thirsty. 

Nourmahal  (more  passionately).  But  somewhere  the 
women  do  not  carry  water.  The  poet  only  thought 
of  doing  what  somewhere  men  have  done.  Here  a 
thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday  and  ten  thou 
sand  as  a  watch  in  the  night.  I  am  not  I,  but  an 
echo  of  the  mad  desires  of  dead  men  whose  dust 
has  been  blown  across  the  desert  for  countless  cen 
turies.  Why  should  I  not  think  of  my  own  desires 
before  my  dust,  too,  flies  forgotten  before  the 
passing  caravans? 

King  Nasrulla.  But  you  are  to  be  my  queen.  Noth 
ing  more  can  anyone  give  you  in  Saranazett. 
Nourmahal.  And  to-morrow  or  next  week  your  am 
bassador  to  the  King  of  the  East  comes  back  with 
letters  and  pledges  of  friendship.  Perhaps  he 
brings  with  him  the  King's  daughter. 
King  Nasrulla.  But  she  is  only  the  official  seal  of  a 
bond,  only  a  hostage.  She  is  not  the  rose  that  I 
pin  over  my  heart.  She  is  not  the  nightingale  that 
I  love  to  hear  singing  in  my  garden.  She  is  not 
the  face  behind  the  lattice  that  draws  my  eager 
feet.  She  is  not  the  fountain  that  will  make  me 
drink  and  drink  again. 


190  The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

Nourmahal.  But  I  shall  not  ride  with  you  into  the 
distance  and  leave  the  kings'  daughters  behind? 

King  Nasrulla.     The  King  of  the  East  — 

Nourmahal.  I  know.  The  King  of  the  East  has  a 
great  army.  I  must  stay  in  my  garden,  or  I  shall 
have  to  spend  my  life  talking  about  the  things  he 
likes  or  dislikes,  his  angers  and  his  fondnesses,  with 
the  women  of  his  harem. 

She  puts  her  foot  out  for  his  hand,  ready  to 
be  taken  down  from  the  horse. 

King  Nasrulla.     Nourmahal! 

Nourmahal.  Yes,  I  must  keep  my  veil  before  my 
face  and  stay  within  my  garden. 

He  helps  her  down,  and  she  turns  the  horse's 
head  back  to  the  right  in  the  direction  from 
which  they  came. 

King  Nasrulla.  I  shall  take  you,  Nourmahal,  and 
make  you  queen. 

Nourmahal.  Take  me!  Take  the  others  and  let 
them  be  queens.  They  will  be  happy  enough,  after 
the  way  of  their  mothers,  but  you  cannot  take  the 
wind. 

King  Nasrulla.  Being  your  lover  is  not  ceasing  to  be 
king.  May  not  the  king  ask  of  his  subjects  what 
he  will?  What  is  it  to  be  king? 

Nourmahal  (turning  as  she  is  passing  toward  the 
gate).  Sometimes  it  is  making  a  fresher  and  hap 
pier  world  for  those  who  come  to  kneel  before  the 
throne.  Kings  are  not  often  so  wise. 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith          191 

King  Nasrulla.  And  when  they  are  not  so  wise  they 
think  of  their  own  happiness.  They  let  love  come 
into  the  palace,  and  the  favorite  queen  has  the 
riches  of  the  earth  heaped  in  jewels  before  her. 
The  tenderness  of  the  moon  shines  in  the  clasp  of 
her  girdle,  and  the  splendor  of  the  sun  glitters  in  a 
circlet  for  her  forehead. 

Nourmahal.  And  sometimes,  seeking  their  own 
pleasure,  kings  make  the  killing  of  those  who  are 
not  kings  their  joy.  They  teach  all  men  to  be 
soldiers  and  all  soldiers  to  be  ruthless.  Their 
women  learn  to  delight  in  the  echoes  of  battle,  and 
the  man  who  is  not  scarred  by  the  marks  of  many 
fights  they  pity  and  despise.  So  women  forget  to 
be  gentle,  and  the  lords  and  masters  of  earth  no 
longer  watch  over  them  and  care  for  them,  no 
longer  shelter  the  weak  and  the  defenseless,  no 
longer  think  of  right  and  justice,  because  they 
carry  in  their  hands  the  javelins  of  might  and 
they  have  learned  to  fling  them  far. 

King  Nasrulla.  But  I  shall  watch  over  you  as  the 
cloud  watches  over  the  garden  where  the  roses  are 
waiting  for  the  rain. 

Nourmahal.  No,  I  shall  not  have  a  king  to  watch 
over  me.  Somewhere  they  have  no  kings.  A  queen 
dies  daily  with  loneliness,  or  lives  hourly  in  the 
burning  hate  of  all  her  sister  queens.  To  breathe 
the  air  where  there  are  no  queens  would  be  an 


192          The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

ecstasy.  I  will  not  be  a  king's  first  queen  or  his 
last  queen  or  his  concubine  or  any  other  creature 
whom  he  may  cast  aside  for  a  new  fancy  whenever 
the  fancy  comes. 

A  messenger  enters  from  the  right,  preceded 
by  two  attendants  carrying  each  one  of  the  long, 
melon-shaped  lanterns  that  accompany  royalty. 
The  messenger  bows  before  Nasrulla,  dropping 
on  one  knee. 
Messenger.  Your  Royal  Highness,  I  am  sent  to  beg 

that  you  will  hear  me. 
King  Nasrulla.     It  is  my  pleasure  to  listen  to  your 

message.     Speak ! 
Messenger.     It  is  not  I  speaking,  Your  Majesty,  but 

your  minister,  Huseyn. 

King  Nasrulla.     I  listen  to  the  words  of  Huseyn. 
Messenger.     Know,    O   Mighty   Lord   of   the   Great 
Center  of  Earth  —  the  ambassador  to  the  King  of 
the  East  is  reported  returning  by  the  long  highway. 

Nourmahal's  father,  Mehrab,  comes  out  from 
the  gate  in  the  wall  and  stands  listening. 
King  Nasrulla.     Say  to  Huseyn  that  I  will  see  him 
and  make  arrangements   for  his  reception  before 
nightfall. 

Messenger.     He  brings  very  important  tidings,  Your 

Majesty.      Pardon  me,   O  Lord  of  the  Lives  of 

Your  Servants.     I  speak  but  the  words  of  Huseyn. 

King  Nasrulla.     I  hear  the  words  of  Huseyn. 

Messenger.     The  ambassador  should  be  received  as 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith          193 

early  as  may  be,  is  the  word  of  Huseyn.  He  knows 
the  will  of  the  King  of  the  East,  and  the  King  of 
the  East  would  know  your  will,  O  Mightiest  of  the 
Mighty. 

Nourmahal  (bowing  to  her  knees  before  him).  Let 
me  beg  of  you  also,  King  Nasrulla,  that  you  give 
audience  at  once  to  the  ambassador  who  comes  with 
word  from  the  King  of  the  East. 

King  Nasrulla.  I  listen  to  the  words  of  Nourmahal 
with  the  words  of  Huseyn. 

Messenger.  And  I  shall  say  to  the  Prime  Minister 
Huseyn  that  His  Majesty,  the  Lord  of  Everlasting 
Effulgence,  will  graciously  consent  to  speak  with 
him  before  the  sun  looks  in  at  his  image  in  the 
water  jars. 

Nourmahal.  O  King  Nasrulla,  for  the  sake  of  the 
rule  that  is  thine  from  thy  fathers,  for  the  main 
taining  of  peace  in  all  thy  borders,  for  the  security 
of  thy  people,  who  harvest  their  hopes  in  fear,  per 
mit  the  approach  of  the  ambassador  who  returns 
from  the  King  of  the  East. 

King  Nasrulla.  The  wish  of  Nourmahal  is  a  com 
mand.  I  go  to  make  ready  for  the  ambassador 
who  comes  with  word  from  the  King  of  the  East. 

Nourmahal.  And  for  the  daughter  of  the  King  of 
the  East,  give  thanks,  O  King  Nasrulla.  It  is  said 
that  she  is  very  beautiful,  and  many  wooers  have 
sought  her  vainly.  She  has  been  kept  for  the  joy 


194          The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

and  the  splendor  and  the  growing  greatness  of  My 
Lord  the  King. 
King  Nasrulla.     Announce  my  coming  to  my  Prime 

Minister,  Huseyn. 
Messenger   (rising).     Your  Noble  Majesty  is  most 

gracious.  I  fly  with  your  words  to  Huseyn. 
King  Nasrulla.  As  a  king  I  go,  but  my  thoughts  are 
not  a  king's  thoughts,  and  they  stay  here.  It  may 
be  I  shall  look  for  them  again,  as  one  looks  for 
love  in  his  friend's  heart  at  the  home-returning. 
Farewell ! 

Nourmahal.  I  shall  keep  your  thoughts  forever,  My 
Lord  Nasrulla,  but  for  the  King  and  the  ways  of 
the  King  —  farewell ! 

The  two  lantern  carriers  who  have  come  with 
the  messenger  turn  to  the  right  to  light  the  way 
for  the  King,  and,  as  they  pass  off,  he  follows 
them.  Nourmahal  watches  them  until  they  are 
gone,  while  Mehrab,  Nourmahal's  father,  comes 
forward  slowly. 

Mehrab.     He  threatened  you,  did  he? 
Nourmahal.     Threaten!     No,    father,    he    did    not 

threaten  me. 
Mehrab.     Does   he   not   mean   to   make   you   queen 

whether  you  wish  to  be  or  not? 
Nourmahal.     He  will  not  dare. 

Mehrab.  I  am  only  a  merchant,  only  a  dealer  in  figs 
and  olives.  I  am  not  to  be  feared  or  considered 
by  him  or  by  those  that  are  about  him.  It  is  the 


Lewis  Worthington  Smith          195 

way  of  his  kind  to  think  that  you  are  to  be  taken 
as  he  would  take  a  pomegranate  from  the  garden 
of  one  of  his  satraps. 

Nourmahal.     He  will  not  take  me. 

Mehrab.  They  despise  me  because  I  go  with  the 
caravans,  but  I  have  learned  something.  I  know 
the  world.  My  camels  have  tracked  the  sands 
hundreds  of  miles  from  Saranazett,  and  there  are 
places  where  the  words  of  Nasrulla  the  King  mean 
less  than  the  words  of  Mehrab  the  merchant. 

Nourmahal.  They  will  have  horses  to  follow  us. 
Horses  are  swifter  than  camels. 

Mehrab.  We  shall  have  horses  too,  and  ours  shall 
be  the  fleetest.  The  riders  of  the  King's  horses 
will  put  out  their  palms  for  my  silver.  They  will 
know  how  to  make  their  whips  fall  lightly. 

Nourmahal  (eagerly).  Let  us  go  to-morrow.  Let 
us  go  before  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  the  East 
is  carried  in  her  palanquin  to  the  palace.  I  want 
to  see  all  the  places  where  you  have  been.  I  want 
to  know  something  of  the  strange  things  that  you 
have  seen. 

Mehrab.  The  women  of  Saranazett  have  never 
traveled. 

Nourmahal.  But  I  will  not  be  a  woman  of  Sarana 
zett.  There  are  other  worlds  and  other  ways  for 
me  than  the  ways  of  Saranazett. 

Mehrab.     You  shall  not  be  queen  one  day  and  some- 


196          The  Kings  of  Saranazett 

one  else  queen  in  your  place  the  next.  I  was  not 
born  to  live  in  the  world's  high  places,  but  also 
I  was  not  born  to  bend  the  knee.  You  shall  not 
suffer  because  you  are  not  a  king's  daughter,  and 
because  those  that  are  kings'  daughters  smile  at 
you  behind  their  curtains. 
Nourmahal  (more  dreamily  reluctant).  If  we  could 

make  Saranazett  over  into  a  new  world. 
Mehrab.  A  new  world  somewhere  else,  Nourmahal. 
The  packs  are  being  made  ready  for  the  camels. 
Have  your  women  tie  up  your  clothes  as  if  they 
were  bundles  of  figs.  Day  after  to-morrow  or  the 
next  day  or  the  next,  we  shall  take  horse  and 
follow.  We  shall  go  to  a  world  that  is  an  old,  old 
world,  wiser  than  our  world,  a  world  where  men's 
thoughts  are  free  and  their  women's  eyes  look 
wherever  they  will. 
Nourmahal  (passing  to  the  gate).  The  women  shall 

make  ready. 

Mehrab.     At  once,  and  tell  Zuleika  she  goes  with  you. 
Nourmahal.     Zuleika  shall  make  ready. 

She  passes  out  through  the  gate  into  the  gar 
den.  Mehrab  turns  and  sees  the  spikes  driven 
into  the  wall  by  the  tower.  For  a  moment  he 
looks  at  them  in  astonishment,  observing  that 
they  pass  down  to  the  ground  slopingly,  and 
then,  one  by  one,  he  pulls  them  out  and  flings 
them  down  on  the  ground  violently. 


The  Old  Cane  Mill 

By  Nellie  Gregg  Tomlinson 

"What's  sorghum?"     Don't  you  know  sorghum? 

My  gran'son  nigh  sixteen, 

Don't  boys  know  nothin'  nowadays? 

Beats  all  I  ever  seen. 

Why  sorghum's  the  bulliest  stuff 

Wuz  ever  made  ter  eat. 

You  spread  it  thick  on  homemade  bread; 

It's  most  oncommon  sweet. 


"Come  from?"     Wall  yer  jist  better  bet 

It  don't  come  from  no  can. 

Jus'  b'iled  down  juice  from  sorghum  cane, 

Straight  Fway  'lasses  bran'. 

"What's  cane?"     It's  some  like  corn,  yer  know, 

An'  topped  with  plumes  o'  seed. 

Grows  straight  an'  tall  on  yaller  clay 

That  wouldn't  grow  a  weed. 


Long  in  September  when  'twuz  ripe, 
The  cane-patch  battle  field 
Wuz  charged  by  boys  with  wooden  swords, 

197 


198  The  Old  Cane  Mill 

Good  temper  wuz  their  shield. 
They  stripped  the  stalks  of  all  their  leaves, 
Then  men,  with  steel  knives  keen 
Slashed  off  the  heads  and  cut  the  stalks 
An'  piled  them  straight  an'  clean. 

The  tops  wuz  saved  ter  feed  the  hens, 

Likewise  fer  nex'  year's  seed. 

The  farmer  allus  has  ter  save 

Against  the  futur's  need. 

The  neighbors  cum  from  miles  erbout 

An'  fetched  the  cane  ter  mill. 

They  stacked  it  high  betwixt  two  trees, 

At  Gran'dads,  on  the  hill. 

An'  ol'  hoss  turned  the  cane  mill  sweep, 

He  led  hisself  erroun. 

The  stalks  wuz  fed  inter  the  press, 

From  them  the  sap  wuz  groun'. 

This  juice  run  through  a  little  trough 

Ter  pans  beneath  a  shed ; 

There  it  wuz  b'iled  an'  skimmed  and  b'iled, 

Till  it  wuz  thick  an'  red. 

Then  it  wuz  cooled  an'  put  in  bar'ls 

An'  toted  off  to  town 

While  us  kids  got  ter  lick  the  pan, 


Nellie  Gregg  Tomlinson  199 

Which  job  wuz  dun  up  brown. 

Gee  whiz!  but  we  did  hev  good  times 

At  taffy  pullin'  bees. 

We  woun'  the  taffy  roun'  girls'  necks  — 

Bob  wuz  the  biggest  tease. 

Inside  the  furnace,  on  live  coals, 

We  het  cane  stalks  red  hot, 

Then  hit  'em  hard  out  on  the  groun' — 

Yer  oughter  hear  'em  pop! 

Sometimes  a  barefoot  boy  would  step 

Inter  the  skimmin's  hole, 

Er  pinch  his  fingers  in  the  mill, 

Er  fall  off  from  the  pole. 

When  winter  winds  went  whis'lin'  through 

The  door  an'  winder  cracks, 

An'  piled  up  snow  wuz  driftin' 

Till  yer  couldn't  see  yer  tracks, 

Then  we  all  drawed  roun'  the  table 

An'  passed  the  buckwheat  cakes, 

Er  mebbe  it  wuz  good  corn  bread. 

"  What's  sorghum?  "     Good  Ian'  sakes. 

Wall,  son,  yer  hev  my  symperthy; 
Yer've  missed  a  lot,  I  swan. 
Oh,  sure  yer  dance  an'  joy-ride 


200  The  Old  Cane  Mill 

Frum  ev'nin'  untel  dawn, 

Yer've  football,  skates  an'  golf  ter  he'p 

The  passin'  time  ter  kill, 

But  give  me  mem'ry's  boyhood  days, 

Erroun'  the  ol'  cane  mill. 


The  Queer  Little  Thing 

By  Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd 

Bonita  Allen  was  a  queer  little  thing.  Everyone 
in  the  school,  from  Miss  Ryder  down  to  the  chamber 
maid,  had  made  remarks  to  that  effect  before  the 
child  had  spent  forty-eight  hours  in  the  house,  yet  no 
one  seemed  able  to  give  a  convincing  reason  for  the 
general  impression. 

The  new  pupil  was  quiet,  docile,  moderately  well 
dressed,  fairly  good  looking.  She  did  nothing  extraor 
dinary.  In  fact,  she  effaced  herself  as  far  as  pos 
sible;  yet  from  the  first  she  caused  a  ripple  in  the 
placid  current  of  the  school,  and  her  personality  was 
distinctly  felt. 

"  I  think  it's  her  eyes,"  hazarded  Belinda,  as  she 
and  Miss  Barnes  discussed  the  new-comer  in  the 
Youngest  Teacher's  room.  "  They  aren't  girl  eyes 
at  all." 

"  Fine  eyes,"  asserted  the  teacher  of  mathematics 
with  her  usual  curtness. 

Belinda  nodded  emphatic  assent.  "  Yes,  of  course ; 
beautiful,  but  so  big  and  pathetic  and  dumb.  I  feel 

201 

Copyrighted  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


202  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

ridiculously  apologetic  every  time  the  child  looks  at 
me,  and  as  for  punishing  her  —  I'd  as  soon  shoot  a 
deer  at  six  paces.  It's  all  wrong.  A  twelve-year-old 
girl  hasn't  any  right  to  eyes  like  those.  If  the  young 
ster  is  unhappy  she  ought  to  cry  twenty-five  handker 
chiefs  full  of  tears,  as  Evangeline  Marie  did  when  she 
came,  and  then  get  over  it.  And  if  she's  happy  she 
ought  to  smile  with  her  eyes  as  well  as  with  her  lips. 
I  can't  stand  self -repression  in  children." 

"  She'll  be  all  right  when  she  has  been  here  longer 
and  begins  to  feel  at  home,"  said  Miss  Barnes.  But 
Belinda  shook  her  head  doubtfully  as  she  went  down 
to  superintend  study  hour. 

Seated  at  her  desk  in  the  big  schoolroom  she 
looked  idly  along  the  rows  of  girlish  heads  until  she 
came  to  one  bent  stoically  over  a  book.  The  new 
pupil  was  not  fidgeting  like  her  comrades.  Appar 
ently  her  every  thought  was  concentrated  upon  the 
book  before  her.  Her  elbows  were  on  her  desk,  and 
one  lean  little  brown  hand  supported  the  head,  whose 
masses  of  straight  black  hair  were  parted  in  an  uner 
ring  white  line  and  fell  in  two  heavy  braids.  The 
face  framed  in  the  smooth  shining  hair  was  lean  as 
the  hand,  yet  held  no  suggestion  of  ill-health.  It 
was  clean  cut,  almost  to  sharpness,  brown  with  the 
brownness  that  comes  from  wind  and  sun,  oddly  firm 
about  chin  and  lips,  high  of  cheekbones,  straight  of 
nose. 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  203 

As  Belinda  looked  two  dark  eyes  were  raised  from 
the  book  and  met  her  own  —  sombre  eyes  with  a 
hurt  in  them  —  and  an  uncomfortable  lump  rose  in 
the  Youngest  Teacher's  throat.  She  smiled  at  the 
sad  little  face,  but  the  smile  was  not  a  merry  one. 
In  some  unaccountable  way  it  spoke  of  the  sympa 
thetic  lump  in  her  throat,  and  the  Queer  Little  Thing 
seemed  to  read  the  message,  for  the  ghost  of  an 
answering  smile  flickered  in  the  brown  depths  before 
the  lids  dropped  over  them. 

When  study  hour  was  over  the  Youngest  Teacher 
moved  hastily  to  the  door,  with  some  vague  idea  of 
following  up  the  successful  smile,  and  establishing 
diplomatic  relations  with  the  new  girl;  but  she  was 
not  quick  enough.  Bonita  had  slipped  into  the  hall 
and  hurried  up  the  stair  toward  the  shelter  of  her 
own  room. 

Shrugging  her  shoulders,  Belinda  turned  toward 
the  door  of  Miss  Ryder's  study  and  knocked. 

"  Come  in." 

The  voice  was  not  encouraging.  Miss  Lucilla 
objected  to  interruptions  in  the  late  evening  hours, 
when  she  relaxed  from  immaculately  fitted  black  silk 
to  the  undignified  folds  of  a  violet  dressing  gown. 

When  she  recognized  the  intruder  she  thawed  per 
ceptibly. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Carewe !  Come  in.  Nothing  wrong, 
is  there?" 


204  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

Belinda  dropped  into  a  chair  with  a  whimsical 
sigh. 

"  Nothing  wrong  except  my  curiosity.  Miss  Ryder, 
do  tell  me  something  about  that  Allen  child." 

Miss  Lucilla  eyed  her  subordinate  questioningly. 

"  What  has  she  been  doing?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  I  wish  she  would  do  something. 
It's  what  she  doesn't  do,  and  looks  capable  of  doing, 
that  bothers  me.  There's  simply  no  getting  at  her. 
She's  from  Texas,  isn't  she?" 

The  principal  regarded  attentively  one  of  the  grapes 
she  was  eating,  and  there  was  an  interval  of  silence. 

"  She  is  a  queer  little  thing,"  Miss  Lucilla  admitted 
at  last.  "  Yes,  she's  from  Texas,  but  that's  no  reason 
why  she  should  be  odd.  We've  had  a  number  of 
young  ladies  from  Texas,  and  they  were  quite  like 
other  school  girls  only  more  so.  Just  between  you 
and  me,  Miss  Carewe,  I  think  it  must  be  the  child's 
Indian  blood  that  makes  her  seem  different." 

"  Indian  ?  "  Belinda  sat  up,  sniffing  romance  in 
the  air. 

"  Yes,  her  father  mentioned  the  strain  quite  cas 
ually  when  he  wrote.  It's  rather  far  back  in  the  fam 
ily,  but  he  seemed  to  think  it  might  account  for  the 
girl's  intense  love  for  nature  and  dislike  of  con 
ventions.  Mrs.  Allen  died  when  the  baby  was  born, 
and  the  father  has  brought  the  child  up  on  a  ranch. 
He's  completely  wrapped  up  in  her,  but  he  finally 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  205 

realized  that  she  needed  to  be  with  women.  He's 
worth  several  millions  and  he  wants  to  educate  her 
so  that  she'll  enjoy  the  money  — '  be  a  fine  lady,'  as 
he  puts  it.  I  confess  his  description  of  the  girl  dis 
turbed  me  at  first,  but  he  was  so  liberal  in  regard  to 
terms  that  —  " 

Miss  Lucilla  left  the  sentence  in  the  air  and  med 
itatively  ate  another  bunch  of  grapes. 

"Did  her  father  come  up  with  her?"  Belinda 
asked. 

"  No,  he  sent  her  with  friends  who  happened  to  be 
coming  —  highly  respectable  couple,  but  breezy,  very 
breezy.  They  told  me  that  Bonita  could  ride  any 
broncho  on  the  ranch  and  could  shoot  a  jack-rabbit 
on  the  run.  They  seemed  to  think  she  would  be  a 
great  addition  to  our  school  circle  on  that  account. 
Personally  I'm  much  relieved  to  find  her  so  tractable 
and  quiet,  but  I've  noticed  something  —  well  —  un 
usual  about  her." 

As  Belinda  went  up  to  bed  she  met  a  slim  little 
figure  in  a  barbaric  red  and  yellow  dressing  gown 
crossing  the  hall.  There  was  a  shy  challenge  in  the 
serious  child  face,  although  the  little  feet,  clad  in 
soft  beaded  moccasins,  quickened  their  steps;  and 
Belinda  answered  the  furtive  friendliness  by  slipping 
an  arm  around  the  girl's  waist  and  drawing  her  into 
the  tiny  hall  bedroom. 

"  You  haven't  been  to  see  me.    It's  one  of  the  rules 


206          The  Queer  Little  Thing 

that  every  girl  shall  have  a  cup  of  cocoa  with  me 
before  she  has  been  here  three  evenings,"  she  said 
laughingly. 

The  Queer  Little  Thing  accepted  the  overture 
soberly  and,  curled  up  in  the  one  big  chair,  watched 
the  teacher  in  silence. 

The  cocoa  was  soon  under  way.  Then  the  hostess 
turned  and  smiled  frankly  at  her  guest.  Belinda's 
smile  is  a  reassuring  thing. 

"  Homesick  business,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  said  abruptly, 
with  a  warm  note  of  comradeship  in  her  voice. 

The  tense  little  figure  in  the  big  chair  leaned  for 
ward  with  sudden,  swift  confidence. 

"  I'm  going  home,"  announced  Bonita  in  a  tone 
that  made  no  reservations. 

Belinda  received  the  news  without  the  quiver  of  an 
eyelash  or  a  sign  of  incredulity. 

"  When?  "  she  asked  with  interest  warm  enough  to 
invite  confession  and  not  emphatic  enough  to  rouse 
distrust. 

"  I  don't  know  just  when,  but  I  have  to  go.  I 
can't  stand  it  and  I've  written  to  Daddy.  He'll 
understand.  Nobody  here  knows.  They're  all  used 
to  it.  They've  always  lived  in  houses  like  this,  with 
little  back  yards  that  have  high  walls  around  them, 
and  sidewalks  and  streets  right  outside  the  front  win 
dows,  and  crowds  of  strange  people  going  by  all  the 
time,  and  just  rules,  rules,  rules,  everywhere.  Every- 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  207 

body  has  so  many  manners,  and  they  talk  about  things 
I  don't  know  anything  about,  and  nobody  would 
understand  if  I  talked  about  the  real  things." 

"  Perhaps  I'll  understand  a  little  bit/'  murmured 
Belinda.  The  Queer  Little  Thing  put  out  one  hand 
and  touched  the  Youngest  Teacher's  knee  gently  in  a 
shy,  caressing  fashion. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't  understand,  because  you  don't 
know;  but  you  could  learn.  The  others  couldn't. 
The  prairie  wouldn't  talk  to  them  and  they'd  be 
lonesome  —  the  way  I  am  here.  Dick  says  you  have 
got  to  learn  the  language  when  you  are  little,  or 
else  have  a  gift  for  such  languages,  but  that  when 
you've  once  learned  it  you  don't  care  to  hear  any 
other." 

"Who's  Dick?"  Belinda  asked. 

"Dick?  Oh  he's  just  Dick.  He  taught  me  to 
ride  and  to  shoot,  and  he  used  to  read  poetry  to  me, 
and  he  told  me  stories  about  everything.  He  used 
to  go  to  a  big  school  called  Harvard,  but  he  was  lone 
some  there  —  the  way  I  am  here." 

"  The  way  I  am  here  "  dropped  into  the  talk  like 
a  persistent  refrain,  and  there  was  heartache  in  it. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  the  child  went  on.  Now 
that  the  dam  of  silence  was  down  the  pent-up  feeling 
rushed  out  tumultuously.  "  I  want  to  see  Daddy  and 
the  boys  and  the  horses  and  the  cattle,  and  I  want 
to  watch  the  sun  go  down  over  the  edge  of  the  world, 


208  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

not  just  tumble  down  among  the  dirty  houses,  and 
I  want  to  gallop  over  the  prairie  where  there  aren't 
any  roads,  and  smell  the  grass  and  watch  the  birds  and 
the  sky.  You  ought  to  see  the  sky  down  there  at 
night,  Miss  Carewe.  It's  so  big  and  black  and  soft 
and  full  of  bright  stars,  and  you  can  see  clear  to 
where  it  touches  the  ground  all  around  you,  and 
there's  a  night  breeze  that's  cool  as  cool,  and  the  boys 
all  play  their  banjos  and  guitars  and  sing,  and  Daddy 
and  I  sit  over  on  our  veranda  and  listen.  There's 
only  a  little  narrow  strip  of  sky  with  two  or  three 
stars  in  it  out  of  my  window  here,  and  it's  so  noisy 
and  cluttered  out  in  the  back  yards  —  and  I  hate 
walking  in  a  procession  on  the  ugly  old  streets,  and 
doing  things  when  bells  ring.  I  hate  it.  I  hate  it." 

Her  voice  hadn't  risen  at  all,  had  only  grown 
more  and  more  vibrant  with  passionate  rebellion.  The 
sharp  little  face  was  drawn  and  pale,  but  there  were 
no  tears  in  the  big  tragic  eyes. 

Belinda  had  consoled  many  homesick  little  girls, 
but  this  was  a  different  problem. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  softly.  "Don't  you  think 
It  will  be  easier  after  a  while?  " 

The  small  girl  with  the  old  face  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  it  won't.  It  isn't  in  me  to  like  all  this. 
I'm  so  sorry,  because  Daddy  wants  me  to  be  a  lady. 
He  said  it  was  as  hard  for  him  to  send  me  as  it  was 
for  me  to  come,  but  that  I  couldn't  learn  to  be  a 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  209 

lady  with  lots  of  money  to  spend  down  there  with 
only  boys  and  him.  There  wasn't  any  lady  there  on 
the  ranch  at  all,  except  Mammy  Lou,  the  cook,  and 
she  didn't  have  lots  of  money  to  spend,  so  she  wasn't 
the  kind  he  meant.  I  thought  I'd  come  and  try,  but 
I  didn't  know  it  would  be  like  this.  I  don't  want  to 
be  a  lady,  Miss  Carewe.  I  don't  believe  they  can  be 
very  happy.  I've  seen  them  in  carriages  and  they  don't 
look  very  happy.  You're  nice.  I  like  you,  and  I'm 
most  sure  Daddy  and  Dick  and  the  boys  would  like 
you,  but  then  you  haven't  got  lots  of  money,  have  you  ? 
And  you  were  born  up  here  and  you  don't  know  any 
better  anyway.  I'm  going  home." 

The  burst  of  confidence  ended  where  it  had  begun. 
She  was  going  home,  and  she  was  so  firm  in  the 
faith  that  Belinda,  listening,  believed  her. 

"  But  if  your  father  says  no?  " 

The  dark  little  face  was  quiet  again,  all  but  the 
great  eyes. 

"  I'll  have  to  go,"  the  Queer  Little  Thing  slowly 
said. 

Four  days  later  Miss  Lucilla  Ryder  called  the 
Youngest  Teacher  into  the  study. 

"  Miss  Carewe,  I'm  puzzled  about  this  little  Miss 
Allen.  I  had  a  letter  from  her  father  this  morning. 
He  says  that  she  has  written  that  she  is  very  home 
sick  and  unhappy  and  doesn't  want  to  stay.  He 
feels  badly  about  it,  of  course,  but  he  very  wisely 


210  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

leaves  the  matter  in  our  hands  —  says  he  realizes 
she'll  have  to  be  homesick  and  he'll  have  to  be  lone 
some  if  she's  to  be  a  lady.  But  he  wants  us  to  do 
all  we  can  to  make  her  contented.  He  very  gen 
erously  sends  a  check  for  five  hundred  dollars,  which 
we  are  to  use  for  any  extra  expense  incurred  in 
entertaining  her  and  making  her  happy.  Now,  I 
thought  you  might  take  her  to  the  theater  and  the 
art  museum,  and  the  —  a  —  the  aquarium,  and  intro 
duce  her  to  the  pleasures  and  advantages  of  city  life. 
She'll  soon  be  all  right." 

With  sinking  heart  Belinda  went  in  search  of  the 
girl.  She  found  her  practicing  five-finger  exercises 
drearily  in  one  of  the  music-rooms.  As  Belinda 
entered  the  child  looked  up  and  met  the  friendly, 
sympathetic  eyes.  A  mute  appeal  sprang  into  her 
own  eyes,  and  Belinda  understood.  The  thing  was 
too  bad  to  be  talked  about,  and  the  Youngest  Teacher 
said  no  word  about  the  homesickness  or  the  expected 
letter.  In  this  way  she  clinched  her  friendship  with 
the  Queer  Little  Thing. 

But,  following  the  principal's  orders,  she  endeav 
ored  to  demonstrate  to  Bonita  the  joy  and  blessed 
ness  of  life  in  New  York.  The  child  went,  quietly 
wherever  she  was  taken  —  a  mute,  pathetic  little  fig 
ure  to  whom  the  aquarium  fish  and  the  Old  Masters 
and  the  latest  matinee  idol  were  all  one  —  and  unim 
portant.  The  other  girls  envied  her  her  privileges 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  211 

and  her  pocket-money,  but  they  did  not  understand. 
No  one  understood  save  Belinda,  and  she  did  her 
cheerful  best  to  blot  out  old  loves  with  new  impres 
sions;  but  from  the  first  she  felt  in  her  heart  that 
she  was  elected  to  failure.  The  child  was  fond  of 
her,  always  respectful,  always  docile,  always  grave. 
Nothing  brought  a  light  into  her  eyes  or  a  spon 
taneous  smile  to  her  lips.  Anyone  save  Belinda 
would  have  grown  impatient,  angry.  She  only  grew 
more  tender  —  and  more  troubled.  Day  by  day  she 
watched  the  sad  little  face  grow  thinner.  It  was 
pale  now,  instead  of  brown,  and  the  high  cheek  bones 
were  strikingly  prominent.  The  lips  pressed  closely 
together  drooped  plaintively  at  the  corners  and  the 
big  eyes  were  more  full  of  shadow  than  ever;  but 
the  child  made  no  protest  or  plea,  and  by  tacit  con 
sent  she  and  Belinda  ignored  their  first  conversation 
and  never  mentioned  Texas. 

Often  Belinda  made  up  her  mind  to  put  aside 
the  restraint  and  talk  freely  as  she  would  to  any  other 
girl,  but  there  was  something  about  the  little  Texan 
that  forbade  liberties,  warned  off  intruders,  and  the 
Youngest  Teacher  feared  losing  what  little  ground 
she  had  gained. 

Finally  she  went  in  despair  to  Miss  Ryder. 

"  The  Indian  character  is  too  much  for  me,"  she 
confessed  with  a  groan  half  humorous,  half  earnest. 
"I  give  it  up." 


212  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  asked  Miss  Ryder. 

"Well,  I've  dragged  poor  Bonita  Allen  all  over 
the  borough  of  Manhattan  and  the  Bronx  and  spent 
many  ducats  in  the  process.  She  has  been  very  polite 
about  it,  but  just  as  sad  over  Sherry's  tea  hour  as 
over  Grant's  tomb,  and  just  as  cheerful  over  the 
Cesnola  collection  as  over  the  monkey  cages  at  the 
Zoo.  The  poor  little  thing  is  so  unhappy  and  mis 
erable  that  she  looks  like  a  wild  animal  in  a  trap, 
and  I  think  the  best  we  can  do  with  her  is  to  send 
her  home. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Lucilla.  "  Her  father  is 
paying  eighteen  hundred  dollars  a  year." 

Belinda  was  defiant. 

"  I  don't  care.     He  ought  to  take  her  home." 

"  Miss  Carewe,  you  are  sentimentalizing.  One 
would  think  you  had  never  seen  a  homesick  girl 
before." 

"  She's  different  from  other  girls." 

"I'll  talk  with  her  myself,"  said  Miss  Lucilla 
sternly. 

She  did,  but  the  situation  remained  unchanged, 
and  when  she  next  mentioned  the  Texan  problem  to 
Belinda,  Miss  Lucilla  was  less  positive  in  her  views. 

"  She's  a  very  strange  child,  but  we  must  do  what 
we  can  to  carry  out  her  father's  wishes." 

"  I'd  send  her  home,"  said  Belinda. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  Katherine  Holland, 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  213 

who  sat  beside  Bonita  at  the  table,  confided  to  Belinda 
that  that  funny  little  Allen  girl  didn't  eat  a  thing. 
The  waitress  came  to  Belinda  with  the  same  tale, 
and  the  Youngest  Teacher  sought  out  Bonita  and 
reasoned  with  her. 

"  You  really  must  eat,  my  dear,"  she  urged. 

"Why?" 

"  You'll  be  ill  if  you  don't." 

"How  soon?" 

Belinda  looked  dazed. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"  How  soon  will  I  be  sick  ?  " 

"  Very  soon,  I'm  afraid,"  the  puzzled  teacher 
answered. 

"  That's  good.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  wait  much 
longer." 

Belinda  gasped. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  want  to  be  ill  ?  " 

"  If  I  get  very  sick  Daddy  will  come  for  me." 

The  teacher  looked  helplessly  at  the  quiet,  great- 
eyed  child,  then  launched  into  expostulation,  argu 
ment,  entreaty. 

Bonita  listened  politely  and  was  profoundly  unim 
pressed. 

"  It's  wicked,  dear  child.  It  would  make  your 
father  wretchedly  unhappy." 

"  He'd  be  awfully  unhappy  if  he  understood,  any 
way.  He  thinks  I'm  not  really  unhappy  and  that  it's 


214  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

his  duty  to  keep  me  here  and  make  a  lady  of  me,  no 
matter  how  lonely  he  is  without  me.  He  wrote  me 
so  —  but  I  know  he'd  be  terribly  glad  if  he  had  a 
real  excuse  for  taking  me  home." 

Belinda  exhausted  her  own  resources  and  appealed 
to  Miss  Lucilla,  who  stared  incredulously  over  her 
nose-glasses  and  sent  for  Bonita. 

After  the  interview  she  called  for  the  Youngest 
Teacher,  and  the  two  failures  looked  at  each  other 
helplessly. 

"  It's  an  extraordinary  thing,"  said  Miss  Lucilla 
in  her  most  magisterial  tone  —  "a  most  extraordinary 
thing.  In  all  my  experience  I've  seen  nothing  like  it. 
Nothing  seems  to  make  the  slightest  impression  upon 
the  child.  She's  positively  crazy." 

"  You  will  tell  her  father  to  send  for  her,  won't 
you?" 

Miss  Lucilla  shook  her  head  stubbornly. 

"  Not  at  all.  It  would  be  the  ruination  of  the 
child  to  give  in  to  her  whims  and  bad  temper  now. 
If  she  won't  listen  to  reason  she  must  be  allowed 
to  pay  for  her  foolishness.  When  she  gets  hungry 
enough  she  will  eat.  It's  a  shame  to  talk  about  a 
child  of  twelve  having  the  stoicism  to  starve  herself 
into  an  illness  just  because  she  is  homesick  at  board 
ing-school." 

Belinda  came  back  to  her  thread-worn  argument. 

"  But  Bonita  is  different,  Miss  Ryder." 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  215 

"  She's  a  very  stubborn,  selfish  child,"  said  Miss 
Ryder  resentfully,  and  turning  to  her  desk  she 
changed  the  conversation. 

Despite  discipline,  despite  pleadings,  despite  cajol 
ery,  Bonita  stood  firm.  Eat  she  would  not,  and 
when,  on  her  way  to  class  one  morning  the  scrap  of 
humanity  with  the  set  lips  and  the  purple  shadows 
round  her  eyes  fainted  quietly,  Belinda  felt  that  a 
masterly  inactivity  had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue. 

James,  the  house  man,  carried  the  girl  upstairs,  and 
the  Youngest  Teacher  put  her  to  bed,  where  she 
opened  her  eyes  to  look  unseeingly  at  Belinda  and 
then  closed  them  wearily  and  lay  quite  still,  a  limp 
little  creature  whose  pale  face  looked  pitifully  thin 
and  lifeless  against  the  white  pillow.  The  Queer  Lit 
tle  Thing's  wish  had  been  fulfilled  and  illness  had 
come  without  long  delay. 

For  a  moment  Belinda  looked  down  at  the  girl. 
Then  she  turned  and  went  swiftly  to  Miss  Ryder's 
study,  her  eyes  blazing,  her  mouth  so  stern  that 
Amelia  Bowers,  who  met  her  on  the  stairs,  hurried 
to  spread  the  news  that  Miss  Carewe  "  was  per 
fectly  hopping  mad  about  something." 

Once  in  the  presence  of  the  August  One  the  little 
teacher  lost  no  time  in  parley. 

"  Miss  Ryder,"  she  said  crisply  —  and  at  the  tone 
her  employer  looked  up  in  amazement  —  "  I've  told 
you  about  Bonita  Allen.  I've  been  to  you  again  and 


216  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

again  about  her.  You  knew  that  she  was  fretting 
her  heart  out  and  half  sick,  and  then  you  knew  that 
for  several  days  she  hasn't  been  eating  a  thing.  I 
tried  to  make  you  understand  that  the  matter  was 
serious  and  that  something  radical  needed  to  be  done, 
but  you  insisted  that  the  child  would  come  around 
all  right  and  that  we  mustn't  give  in  to  her.  I 
begged  you  to  send  for  her  father  and  you  said  it 
wasn't  necessary.  I'm  here  to  take  your  orders,  Miss 
Ryder,  but  I  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing.  I  know 
the  girl  better  than  any  of  the  rest  of  you  do,  and 
I  know  it  isn't  badness  that  makes  her  act  so. 
Now  she  is  ill  —  really  ill.  I've  just  put  her  to  bed, 
and  honestly.  Miss  Ryder,  if  we  don't  send  for  her 
father  we'll  have  a  tragedy  on  our  hands.  It  sounds 
foolish,  but  it  is  true.  If  nobody  else  telegraphs  to 
Mr.  Allen  I  am  going  to  do  it." 


When  the  doctor  came  there  were  bright  red  spots 
on  the  Queer  Little  Thing's  cheeks,  and  she  was 
babbling  incoherently  about  prairie  flowers  and  horses 
and  Dick  and  Daddy. 

Meanwhile  a  telegram  had  gone  to  Daddy  and  the 
messenger  who  delivered  it  heard  a  volume  of  pic 
turesque  comment  that  was  startling  even  on  a 
Texas  ranch. 

"  Am  coming,"  ran  the  answering  dispatch  received 


Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd  217 

by  Miss  Ryder  that  night;  but  it  was  not  until  morn 
ing  that  Bonita  was  able  to  understand  the  news. 

"  He's  scared,  but  I  know  he's  glad,"  she  said  and 
she  swallowed  without  a  murmur  the  broth  against 
which  even  in  her  delirium  she  had  fought. 

One  evening,  three  days  later,  a  hansom  dashed  up 
to  the  school  and  out  jumped  a  tall,  square-shoul 
dered*  man  in  a  wide-brimmed  hat,  and  clothes  that 
bore  only  a  family  resemblance  to  the  clothing  of 
the  New  York  millionaires,  though  they  were  good 
clothes  in  their  own  free-and-easy  way. 

A  loud,  hearty  voice  inquiring  for  "  My  baby " 
made  itself  heard  even  in  the  sickroom,  and  a  sud 
den  light  flashed  into  the  little  patient's  eyes  —  a 
light  that  was  an  illumination  and  a  revelation. 

"  Daddy,"  she  said  wearily,  and  the  word  was  a 
heart-throb. 

Mr.  Allen  wasted  no  time  in  a  polite  interview 
with  Miss  Ryder.  Hypnotized  by  his  masterfulness, 
the  servant  led  him  directly  up  to  the  sick-room  and 
opened  the  door. 

The  man  rilled  the  room;  a  high  breeze  seemed  to 
come  with  him,  and  vitality  flowed  from  him  in 
tangible  waves.  Belinda  smiled,  but  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  for  the  big  man's  heart  was  in  his 
face. 

"Baby!" 

"Daddy!" 


218  The  Queer  Little  Thing 

Belinda  remembered  an  errand  downstairs. 

When  she  returned  the  big  Texan  was  sitting  on 
the  side  of  the  bed  with  both  the  lean  little  hands 
in  one  of  his  big  brawny  ones,  while  his  other  hand 
awkwardly  smoothed  the  straight  black  hair. 

"  When  will  you  take  me  home,  Daddy?  "  said  the 
child  with  the  shining  eyes. 

"  As  soon  as  you're  strong  enough,  Honey.  The 
boys  wanted  me  to  let  them  charge  New  York  in 
a  bunch  and  get  you.  It's  been  mighty  lonesome 
on  that  ranch.  I  wish  to  heaven  I'd  never  been  fool 
enough  to  let  you  come  away." 

He  turned  to  Belinda  with  a  quizzical  smile  sitting 
oddly  on  his  anxious  face. 

"  I  reckon  she  might  as  well  go,  miss.  I  sent  her 
to  a  finishing  school,  and  by  thunder,  she's  just 
about  finished." 

There  was  a  certain  hint  of  pride  in  his  voice  as 
he  added  reflectively: 

"  I  might  have  known  if  she  said  she'd  have  to 
come  home  she  meant  it.  Harder  to  change  her  mind 
than  to  bust  any  broncho  I  ever  tackled.  Queer  Lit 
tle  Thing,  Baby  is." 


An  American  Wake 

By  Rose  A.  Crow 

This  was  the  last  night  in  the  old  home,  which  had 
sheltered  the  family  for  five  generations.  The  day 
had  been  full  of  excitement,  as  by  a  merciful  ordi 
nance  last  days  usually  are.  The  final  packing  had 
been  done,  the  chests  and  boxes  securely  fastened  and 
carefully  labeled.  This  was  all  looked  after  by  Mar 
garet,  herself,  amidst  interruptions  by  her  brood  of 
young  children.  Visits  from  friends  and  relatives, 
living  at  a  distance,  occupied  much  of  the  day; 
attending  to  countless  minor  things  kept  them  all  busy 
until  nightfall.  Even  then  there  was  no  time  allowed 
to  visit  the  shrine. 

Margaret  had  a  fairy  shrine,  to  which  she  car 
ried  the  cares  of  the  day  and  the  hopes  of  the  mor 
row.  This  charmed  place  was  a  stile  over  the  ivy- 
clad  walls  of  the  garden.  There  she  brought  her 
childish  joys  and  sorrows,  and  in  the  quiet  received 
consolation.  She  had  fought  the  fiercest  battles  of 
her  womanhood  with  her  head  resting  against  the  ivy- 
covered  pillar.  To-night,  when  she  was  parting  from 

219 


220  An  American  Wake 

her  country  and  friends,  there  was  no  time  to  com 
mune  with  her  silent  friend. 

Shortly  after  dusk,  in  accordance  with  local  eti 
quette,  very  stringent  on  such  momentous  occasions, 
the  relatives,  friends  and  neighbors  of  a  lifetime 
began  to  drop  in  by  twos  and  threes  until  every  inch 
of  wall  space  was  filled. 

Who  of  all  this  gathering  was  more  welcome  than 
"  John,  the  Fiddler  "  ?  He  was  a  great  favorite  with 
young  and  old.  The  sight  of  him  carrying  his  fiddle 
caused  a  feeling  of  emotion  in  the  hearts  of  the 
older  people.  It  recalled  the  tragic  story  of  John's 
father  who  years  before  left  for  America  intending 
to  send  for  his  wife  and  crippled  son.  A  fever  con 
tracted  on  shipboard  deprived  them  of  a  husband 
and  father.  It  was  then  that  John  Doyle  became 
"  John,  the  Fiddler." 

John  was  beckoned  into  the  "  room,"  where  with 
Father  O'Connell  and  a  few  trusty  friends,  he  was 
treated  to  a  small  measure  of  potheen.  Dan  Mon- 
ahan  had  donated  a  very  small  jug  for  this  special 
occasion.  To  be  given  the  first  shot  from  Dan's 
still  was  no  small  favor,  as  those  present  knew. 
Before  taking  his  seat  at  the  end  of  the  room,  John 
drank  Margaret's  health,  wishing  herself  and  family 
a  safe  voyage  across  the  water,  and  a  happy  home 
on  the  prairies  of  Iowa. 

Each  guest  realized  the  strain  of  parting  and  gen- 


Rose  A.  Crow  221 

erously  made  an  effort  to  conceal  the  gloom  with  a 
brave  semblance  of  mirth.  There  was  dancing,  sing 
ing  of  songs,  and  elaborate  drinking  of  healths.  With 
persistent  calls  for  Margaret's  brother  James,  the 
dancing  stopped.  The  floor  was  cleared,  and  he  was 
borne  in  on  the  shoulders  of  the  leaders,  who  had 
found  him  leaning  against  the  ivy-covered  wall,  gaz 
ing  at  the  moon,  floating  over  his  old  home  which, 
alas!  he  would  never  see  again. 

James  MacNevin  was  a  magnificent  speciment  of 
Irish  manhood  and  a  charming  singer.  He  was  about 
twenty-three  years  old,  tall  and  broad-shouldered, 
with  a  fine  head  of  curly  auburn  hair.  His  clear  blue 
eyes  reflected  the  sadness  of  the  group  around  him, 
while  his  white  teeth  flashed  a  smile.  In  one  hand  he 
crushed  his  handkerchief,  while  with  the  other  he 
nervously  twirled  a  sprig  of  ivy.  A  few  measures 
of  "  Good  Night  and  Joy  Be  with  You  All "  came 
from  the  violin.  For  an  instant  he  wavered,  then 
throwing  back  his  head  he  sang  the  song,  not  with 
full  volume,  but  with  intense  feeling,  emphasis  and 
a  clear  ringing  tone.  The  song  seemed  to  voice  his 
own  feelings  as  his  chest  rose  and  fell.  He  was 
no  longer  just  James  MacNevin,  but  a  pilgrim  travel 
ing  to  a  strange  country.  His  whole  soul  was  filled 
with  the  sentiment,  and  there  was  such  pathos  in  its 
heart-throb  that  the  whole  company  was  moved  to 
tears.  The  last  verse  ended,  he  stood  a  moment  with 


222  An  American  Wake 

gaze  transfixed  —  then  rousing  himself,  bowed,  smiled 
and  with  one  hand  in  his  sister  Margaret's,  the  other 
clutching  the  sprig  of  ivy,  he  passed  out  of  the  home 
forever. 


Rochester,  Minn. 

(With  apologies  to  the  Mayos) 

By  Marie  G.  Stapp 

Mr.  Smith  had  gallstones, 
Mr.  Jones  had  gout, 
Bad  appendices  had  the  Browns 
But  now  they've  been  cut  out. 
Rachel  had  a  goitre, 
Susan  a  queer  spleen, 
A  tumor  worried  Mrs.  Wright 
Though  it  could  not  be  seen. 
Robert  had  large  tonsils 
And  Dick  had  adenoids,  too, 
Bill  Green  had  never  had  an  ear, 
He  did  when  they  got  through. 
Peggy  had  a  leaky  heart, 
Her  father  had  no  hair, 
Both  heart  and  head  are  now  fixed  up 
And  what  a  happy  pair! 
And  I  —  well  I  have  nothing  wrong  — 
That's  why  I  don't  feel  right; 
I'll  pay  my  bill  at  this  hotel 
And  go  back  home  to-night. 
223 


God's  Back  Yard 

By  Jessie  Welborn  Smith 

AN  EPISODE  FROM  ACT  THREE 
Place,    Tim  Murphy's  saloon.      Time,   evening. 

Men  are  crowding  about  the  bar,  drinking 
and  laughing  coarsely.  The  wives  are  huddled 
together  on  a  long  bench  at  one  side  of  the  room. 
The  children  keep  close  to  their  mothers,  but 
stretch  their  little  necks  to  watch  the  dancing 
in  the  back  of  the  room,  where  a  group  of 
painted  women  are  tangoing  to  the  wheezy  ac 
companiment  of  an  old  accordion.  Over  in  the 
corner  a  man  sprawls  drunkenly  across  a  broken- 
down  faro  table. 

Dick  Long  (hammering  the  bar  with  his  mug  and 
singing).  Oh,  I'm  goin'  to  hell,  and  I  don't  give 
a  damn.  I'm  goin'  to  hell.  I'm  goin'  to  —  hell. 
Murphy  (knocking  a  board  from  the  crate  thai  holds 
the  new  nickel-in-the-slot  gramaphone).  You're 
going  a  damn  sight  faster  than  that,  Dickie  Bird, 
but  you'll  have  to  speed  up  a  bit  to  get  in  on  the 
concert.  The  program  begins  at  eight  o'clock 
sharp,  like  it  says  on  the  card  in  the  window,  and 
everybody  gets  an  invite,  but  Caruso  don't  sing 
this  time. 

224 


Jessie  Welborn  Smith  225 

First  Painted  Lady  (stopping  the  dance  and  coming 
down  beside  Murphy).  Let  'er  go,  Murph.  Give 
us  "  Too  Much  Mustard."  The  piano  player  down 
at  the  Gulch  plays  that  just  fine,  and  a  piece  about 
a  girl  that  didn't  want  to  love  him,  but  he  made  her 
do  it.  That  machine  was  long  on  personal  history, 
Murph.  I  heard  them  all  through  three  times.  Let 
'er  go.  We're  all  here. 

First  Wife  (leaning  over  and  speaking  eagerly). 
Mrs.  Long  won't  be  able  to  come,  Murphy,  and 
Old  Moll  is  settin'  up  with  her  to-night.  I  met 
Doc  as  I  came  across.  The  young-un  died.  I 
don't  see  no  use  in  waitin'  when  we're  all  here. 

Rosie  Phelan  (reaching  over  and  pulling  Long's 
sleeve).  Did  you  hear  that,  Dick?  Your  kid  is 
dead.  Your  kid  is  —  d-e-a-d.  Do  you  get  me  ? 

Man  at  the  Bar.  Aw,  break  it  to  him  gentle.  He 
don't  know  he  is  a  father  yet.  Have  a  heart. 

Rosie  Phelan  (disgustedly).  "  Have  a  heart."  Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  that?  For  a  man  who 
guzzles  all  day  you  are  mighty  strong  on  the  heart 
throb  slush.  "  Speak  kindly  to  the  erring."  Didn't 
know  you  had  got  religion.  Was  it  you  got  the 
revivalist  to  come  up  from  the  Gulch? 

Nell  (shifting  her  wad  of  gum).  Well,  he  was  sitting 
over  at  Benton's  rather  lonesome-like  as  I  came 
along.  I  allus  follow  the  crowd. 

Murphy  (hotly).     And  that  is  what  that  preacher  will 


226  God's  Back  Yard 

have  to  do  if  he  makes  any  converts  up  here  at  the 
mine.  I  reckon  that,  with  that  music  machine,  I'm 
equipped  to  compete  with  any  preacher  that  comes 
larking  around  here  until  kingdom  come.  He  said 
he'd  save  me,  if  he  had  to  chase  me  to  hell  and 
back,  did  he?  Well,  that  guy  should  worry.  That 
pale  chicken-liver  chase  me  to  —  Pour  out  the 
drinks,  Bob.  It's  my  treat. 

Bob  slops  a  little  whiskey  into  every  glass  and 
mug  on  the  bar  and  passes  it  round.  As  it  comes 
to  the  wives  they  smile,  but  shake  their  heads. 
Murphy  lifts  his  glass. 

Murphy.  Won't  you  women  drink  the  minister's 
health.  How  about  you  females,  Bett?  Nell? 
Rosie?  Mollie?  You  girls  never  turn  down  free 
liquor,  do  you  ?  Ready  ?  To  hell  with  the  minister. 

Barkeeper.  To  hell  with  every  denatured  female  that 
comes  round  here  praying  for  our  souls'  salvation. 
I  reckon  a  feller  can  do  what  he  damn  pleases  with 
his  own  soul. 

First  Lounger  (lazily  boastful).  I  told  my  old 
woman  that  if  I  ketched  her  or  the  kids  hanging 
round  listening  to  that  mollycoddle  letting  off 
steam,  I'd  — 

First  Wife  (spitefully).  Us  women  ain't  got  no  call 
to  get  religion.  We're  too  meek  already.  My  man 
knows  that  he'll  have  a  wildcat  at  his  head  when 
he  comes  in  with  that  O'Grady  woman,  but  it  don't 
do  no  good.  He  ain't  afeared  o'  nothin'  short  o' 


Jessie  Welborn  Smith  227 

the  devil.  You  don't  ketch  me  joinin'  while  my  old 
man  is  alive.  You  gotta  have  some  protection. 
Safety  first,  I  say. 

Second  Wife  (meekly).  They  say  the  "Blue  Ridge 
Mountains  "  is  a  mighty  tuneful  piece.  My  sister 
heard  it  over  at  Smarty's  las'  Thanksgiving.  Can 
you  tell  whether  your  pianoler  plays  that,  Murphy  ? 

Second  Painted  Lady  (patronizingly).  How  would 
you  expect  Murphy  to  know  what  is  stored  in  that 
machine?  You  pays  your  money  and  your  choice 
is  whatever  it  happens  to  grind  out.  If  you  place 
your  money  on  a  "  Harem  "  and  draws  an  "  Apple 
Blossom  Time  in  Normandy,"  you  got  to  take  your 
medicine.  What  you  waiting  for,  Murph?  My 
gentleman  friend  is  coming  over  from  the  Pass  this 
evening,  and  I  can't  hang  around  here  all  night. 

Rosie  (excitedly,  turning  from  the  window  that  looks 
upon  the  street).  The  light  is  out  at  Benton's. 
The  minister  is  coming  over  here.  Remember  and 
give  him  hell.  Let  him  turn  the  other  cheek. 

Murphy.  No  prayer  meeting  virgin  is  going  to  inter 
fere  with  my  business. 

The  door  opens  and  the  minister  steps  inside. 
Murphy  goes  over  and  greets  him  with  mock 
politeness. 

Murphy.  Rosie,  you  are  chief  usher  to-night.  Will 
you  find  the  minister  a  seat?  Sit  over,  Nell. 
There's  room  enough  between  you  and  Bett  for 


228  God's  Back  Yard 

any  sky  pilot  that  ever  hit  the  trail.  Bob,  give 
the  preacher  a  drink.  He  looks  sort  of  fagged. 
It's  hard  work  saving  sinners  in  God's  Back  Yard. 
I  hope  this  little  concert  ain't  going  to  interfere 
with  your  meeting,  parson. 

Minister  (standing  at  the  bar,  whiskey  glass  in  hand). 
Not  at  all,  friend.  What  is  the  bill  of  fare? 

Rosie  (coming  forward  in  her  low-cut  red  gown  and 
swinging  her  full  skirts  from  side  to  side).  For 
Gawd's  sake,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  it  was  going 
to  be  religious?  I'd  forgot  it  was  prayer-meetin' 
night,  Murph.  (She  carefully  tucks  her  handker 
chief  over  her  bosom  in  pretense  of  modesty.)  I'd 
dressed  up  more,  if  I'd  remembered. 

Nell  (holding  out  a  string  of  glittering  beads).  Here, 
take  these,  Rosie.  These'll  cover  up  some.  I  ain't 
takin'  an  active  part,  so  I  don't  mind. 

Rosie  (lifting  her  arms  to  fasten  the  beads).  Not 
takin'  an  active  part  ?  You  don't  know  what  you're 
say  in'.  I  heard  of  a  minister  once  who  could  make 
hell  look  so  darned  nice  you  wanted  to  fall  for  it 
right  away.  Couldn't  such  a  fellah  give  the  heav 
enly  gates  a  jar?  (She  turns  to  the  minister.) 
Where  d'you  want  to  sit?  Up  there  by  Mollie? 
Take  your  choice. 

Old  Moll's  Daughter  (jumping  down  from  her  perch 
at  one  end  of  the  bar  and  walking  over  brazenly  to 
drop  the  first  nickel  in  the  slot).  Clear  the  way, 


Jessie  Welborn  Smith  229 

can't  you  ?  I'm  praying  for  the  "  Bunny  Hug  " 
and  the  minister  is  backing  me.  For  Gawd's  sake, 
can't  you  clear  the  floor?  Do  you  want  the  music 
to  be  half  done  before  you  find  your  partners?  I'll 
be  obliged  to  you,  parson,  if  you'll  save  this  dance 
for  me.  (She  pauses  a  moment,  nickel  in  hand.) 

First  Card  Player.  I'll  stake  you  ten  to  one  it'll  be 
"  The  Pullman  Porters  on  Parade." 

Second  Player  (doggedly).  They  always  play  "  A 
Great  Big  Blue-Eyed  Baby." 

Rosie  (shaking  her  head  and  singing,  hands  on  hips). 
"  My  harem,  my  harem,  my  roly,  poly  harem." 

Nell  (with  mock  sentiment).  "  For  it's  Apple  Blos 
som  Time  in  Normandy,  in  Normandy,  in  Nor 
mandy." 

The  nickel  jangles  in  the  slot.  The  disk 
begins  to  revolve.  It  grates  and  begins  its 
introductory  mechanical  clinkety-clinkety  clink. 
A  small  child  wails  dismally  as  the  music  shivers 
through  the  room. 

"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly. 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high. 
Hide  me,  O,  my  Saviour,  hide 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past. 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide, 

O,  receive  my  soul  at  last." 


230  God's  Back  Yard 

Rosie's  hands  drop  from  her  hips  as  the  song 
begins.  The  dancing  impulse  passes  from  her 
limbs.  Even  the  muscles  of  her  face  harden 
convulsively. 

Rosie  (hysterically).  Oh,  I  can't  stand  that,  Murphy. 
For  Gawd's  sake,  can't  you  stop  it? 

She  starts  over  toward  the  machine  impul 
sively.  Then  something  catches  her,  she  pauses 
and  is  held  a  moment  while  a  superstitious  awe 
makes  her  eyes  again  the  big  roundness  of  child 
hood's  wonder.  She  draws  the  back  of  her  hand 
across  her  forehead  in  an  endeavor  to  bring  her 
self  out  of  the  daze. 

Rosie  (falling  sobbing  beside  the  bench).  "  O, 
receive  my  soul  at  last."  Why  did  you  leave  your 
little  Rosie?  Mother,  Oh,  mother.  I  ain't  fit  to 
come  to  you  no  more,  mother  —  I  ain't  fit,  I 
ain't  fit. 

One  of  the  mothers  reaches  over  and  strokes 
her  hair. 

Old  Moll's  Daughter  (opening  the  door  and  stepping 
out  into  the  lonely  street  as  she  laughs  madly). 
Old  Murphy  in  cahoots  with  the  minister.  Oh, 
hell! 

The  door  slams  shut.  The  glasses  on  the 
bar  jangle  harshly.  A  snatch  of  song  boldly  de 
fiant  rings  in  from  the  street :  "  Don't  tell  me 
that  you've  lost  your  dog."  Murphy  walks  over 
and  stands  looking  at  the  music  box.  It  is  still 
grinding  out  the  music. 


Jessie  Welborn  Smith  231 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none. 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee. 
Leave,  ah,  leave  me  not  alone. 

Still  support  and  comfort  me. 
All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  staid. 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring. 
Cover  my  defenseless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing." 
The  wives  are  all  crying  quietly.  Rosie  and 
Bett  are  sobbing  with  the  wild  abandon  that 
such  natures  know.  Tears  are  falling  upon  the 
idle  hands  at  the  card  table.  The  men  at  the 
bar  are  strangely  quiet. 

Man  at  the  Faro  Table  (lifting  himself  up  on  his 
elbow) .  I  ushe  shing  —  I  ushe  shing  zhat  —  I 
ushe  shing  Jeshus  —  Jeshus  —  I  ushe  shing  — 
(He  drops  his  head  over  on  the  table  and  weeps 
drunkenly.) 

Little  Child  (pulling  at  her  mother's  shoulders  and 
whining  peevishly).  Who  is  Jesus,  mamma?  Do 
we  know  Jesus?  (Happily.)  Will  he  cover  my 
head  with  a  pretty  birdie's  wing?  (The  mother 
shakes  with  sobs  and  the  child  speaks  more  caress 
ingly.)  Don't  cry,  mother.  I  like  my  hat  with 
the  posies  on  it.  You  can  have  the  feathers,  nice, 
good  mamma.  Don't  cry. 

Murphy  (absently,  looking  at  the  minister).  They 
sang  that  at  the  funeral.  Sally  didn't  have  no  call 
to  hide  anything.  She  was  that  white  and  pure. 


232  God's  Back  Yard 

I  always  felt  her  slippin'  —  slippin'  away.  She 
worried  so  them  last  days  because  of  the  little  kid. 
"  Take  him  back  home,  Murph,"  she  kept  sayin'. 
"  A  little  child  has  got  to  have  some  raisin'.  A 
kid  has  got  to  go  to  Sunday  school,  Tim,  dear,  and 
there  ain't  never  no  meetin's  in  God's  Back  Yard." 

Man  at  the  Bar  (dejectedly,  going  over  to  the  door). 
It's  all  right  for  the  young-uns,  but  when  a  man 
has  got  a  thirst  and  is  down  on  his  luck,  I  don't 
allow  that  God  is  going  to  help  much.  You  got  to 
get  'em  young,  parson,  and  keep  'em  headed 
straight.  It's  hell  turning  back.  I  tried  it,  and  I 
couldn't  make  it  go. 

Minister  (gently,  as  if  speaking  to  someone  very 
near).  Oh,  Jesus,  lover  of  all  these  misguided 
souls,  come  down  to  this  little  room  to-night,  for 
it  is  dark  here,  and,  Oh,  so  cold  and  dreary.  Speak 
to  them,  Jesus,  as  you  did  to  me.  Let  them  see 
the  glory  of  Thy  face.  Will  someone  pray? 

Murphy  (looking  across  at  the  loafers  and  speaking 
half  as  an  invitation,  half  as  a  command).  Are 
you  staying,  boys? 

One  of  the  Men  (doggedly,  as  they  look  at  one 
another  sheepishly  and  no  one  moves  to  go). 
Ain't  we  always  stayin'  till  closin'  time? 

Murphy  (warmly).  You  sure  do,  boys.  (He  buries 
his  head  in  his  crossed  arms  over  the  music-box.) 
It's  your  lead,  parson. 


The  Wild  Crab  Apple 

By  Julia  Ellen  Rogers 

The  wild,  sweet-scented  crab  apple!  The  bare 
mention  of  its  name  is  enough  to  make  the  heart  leap 
up,  though  spring  be  months  away,  and  barriers  of 
brick  hem  us  in.  In  the  corner  of  the  back  pasture 
stands  a  clump  of  these  trees,  huddled  together  like 
cattle.  Their  flat,  matted  tops  reach  out  sidewise 
until  the  stubby  limbs  of  neighboring  trees  meet.  It 
would  not  occur  to  anyone  to  call  them  handsome 
trees.  But  wait!  The  twigs  silver  over  with  young 
foliage,  then  coral  buds  appear,  thickly  sprinkling 
the  green  leaves.  Now  all  their  asperity  is  softened, 
and  a  great  burst  of  rose-colored  bloom  overspreads 
the  treetops  and  fills  the  air  with  perfume.  It  is  not 
mere  sweetness,  but  an  exquisite,  spicy,  stimulating 
fragrance  that  belongs  only  to  wild  crab-apple  flowers. 
Linnaeus  probably  never  saw  more  than  a  dried  speci 
men,  but  he  named  this  tree  most  worthily,  coronaria, 
"  fit  for  crowns  and  garlands." 

Break  off  an  armful  of  these  blossoming  twigs  and 
take  them  home.  They  will  never  be  missed.  Be 
thankful  that  your  friends  in  distant  parts  of  the 

233 


234  The  Wild  Crab  Apple 

country  may  share  your  pleasure,  for  though  this 
particular  species  does  not  cover  the  whole  United 
States,  yet  there  is  a  wild  crab  apple  for  each  region. 

In  the  fall  the  tree  is  covered  with  hard  little  yellow 
apples.  They  have  a  delightful  fragrance,  but  they 
are  neither  sweet  nor  mellow.  Take  a  few  home  and 
make  them  into  jelly.  Then  you  will  understand  why 
the  early  settlers  gathered  them  for  winter  use.  The 
jelly  has  a  wild  tang  in  it,  an  indescribable  piquancy 
of  flavor  as  different  from  common  apple  jelly  as  the 
flowers  are  in  their  way  more  charming  than  ordinary 
appleblossoms.  It  is  the  rare  gamy  taste  of  a  primi 
tive  apple. 

Well-meaning  horticulturists  have  tried  what  they 
could  do  toward  domesticating  this  Mains  coronaria. 
The  effort  has  not  been  a  success.  The  fruit  remains 
acerb  and  hard ;  the  tree  declines  to  be  "  ameliorated  " 
for  the  good  of  mankind.  Isn't  it,  after  all,  a 
gratuitous  office?  Do  we  not  need  our  wild  crab 
apple  just  as  it  is,  as  much  as  we  need  more  kinds  of 
orchard  trees?  How  spirited  and  fine  is  its  resist 
ance!  It  seems  as  if  this  wayward  beauty  of  our 
woodside  thickets  considered  that  the  best  way  to 
serve  mankind  was  to  keep  inviolate  those  charms 
that  set  it  apart  from  other  trees  and  make  its  re 
motest  haunt  the  Mecca  of  eager  pilgrims  every 
spring. 

The  wild  crab  apple  is  not  a  tree  to  plant  by  itself 


Julia  Ellen  Rogers  235 

in  park  or  garden.  Plant  it  in  companies  on  the  edge 
of  woods,  or  in  obscure  and  ugly  fence  corners,  where 
there  is  a  background,  or  where,  at  least,  each  tree  can 
lose  its  individuality  in  the  mass.  Now,  go  away  and 
let  them  alone.  They  do  not  need  mulching  nor 
pruning.  Let  them  gang  their  ain  gait,  and  in  a  few 
years  you  will  have  a  crab-apple  thicket.  You  will 
also  have  succeeded  in  bringing  home  with  these  trees 
something  of  the  spirit  of  the  wild  woods  where  you 
found  them.  — From  The  Tree  Book. 


A  Ballad  of  the  Corn 

By  S.  H.  M.  Byers 

Oh,  the  undulating  prairies, 

And  the  fields  of  yellow  corn, 
Like  a  million  soldiers  waiting  for  the  fray. 

Oh,  the  rustling  of  the  corn  leaves 

Like  a  distant  fairy's  horn 
And  the  notes  the  fairy  bugles  seem  to  play. 

"  We  have  risen  from  the  bosom 

Of  the  beauteous  mother  earth, 
Where  the  farmer  plowed  his  furrow  straight  and 
long. 

There  was  gladness  and  rejoicing 

When  the  summer  gave  us  birth, 
In  the  tumult  and  the  dancing  and  the  song. 

"  When  the  sumach  turns  to  scarlet, 

And  the  vines  along  the  lane 
Are  garmented  in  autumn's  golden  wine  — 

Then  the  land  shall  smile  for  plenty, 

And  the  toiler  for  his  pain, 
When  the  soldiers  of  our  army  stand  in  line. 

236 


S.  H.  M.  Byers  237 

"  With  our  shining  blades  before  us, 

And  our  banners  flaming  far, 
Want  and  hunger  shall  be  slain  forevermore. 

And  the  cornfield's  lord  of  plenty 

In  his  golden-covered  car 
Then  shall  stop  at  every  happy  toiler's  door." 

Oh,  the  sunshine  and  the  beauty 

On  the  fields  of  ripened  corn, 

And   the   wigwams   and   the   corn-rows   where   they 
stand. 

In  the  lanes  I  hear  the  music 

Of  the   faintly  blowing  horn 
And  the  blessed  Indian  summer's  on  the  land. 


The  Children's  Blessing 

By  Virginia  Roderick 

On  the  slope  of  a  hill,  beneath  silvery  olives,  a 
group  was  gathered  about  the  young  stranger.  He 
had  entered  the  village  only  that  morning,  seeking  the 
companionship  of  such  Nazarenes  as  might  be  there. 
And  they  had  brought  him  out  here  in  the  open  to 
receive  his  message.  But  though  he  carried  them 
greetings,  and  news  from  the  distant  groups  of  the 
Christ's  followers,  it  was  plain  that  he  had  not  been 
sent  to  them  on  a  mission. 

They  waited  until  he  should  be  ready  to  explain 
his  quest. 

"  You  did  not  see  Him,  then?  " 

Into  the  young  man's  eyes  there  came  a  great, 
yearning  sadness.  "  No,"  he  answered.  "  But  you," 
he  asked  eagerly,  "  did  none  of  you  see  Him?  " 

They  shook  their  heads,  all  of  them. 

"  We  were  too  far  away,"  one  murmured. 

"  But  I  had  for  spiritual  father  one  who  had  seen 
Him,"  the  traveler  offered,  his  face  lighting.  "  You 
know  how  He  blessed  a  company  of  little  children? 
How  He  put  His  hands  upon  them?"  He  paused 

238 


Virginia  Roderick  239 

and  they  nodded  silently.  "  My  teacher  was  one  of 
those  children,"  he  said,  his  dark  eyes  aglow  with 
reverent  pride. 

A  quick  glance  flashed  about  the  group ;  but  no  one 
spoke  and  the  traveler  went  on,  the  radiance  of  his 
face  blotted  out  again  in  sadness.  "  It  is  because  he 
is  gone  that  I  am  a  wanderer  now.  I  was  always 
with  him,  and  we  went  about  together,  preaching  the 
Kingdom.  It  was  all  so  clear  to  my  teacher  because 
he  had  seen  Him.  He  told  me  of  His  wonderful 
look." 

They  fell  silent,  brooding  and  thoughtful. 

Then  one  asked :  "  What  was  it  like  —  the  bless 
ing  He  gave  your  teacher?  Did  he  gain  goods  and 
store?" 

The  young  traveler's  eyes  opened  in  amazement. 
"  Why  no !  How  could  that  be  ?  My  teacher  was 
like  Him,"  he  explained  simply. 

Again  the  quick  look  passed  about  the  circle.  At 
last  one  spoke,  slowly :  "  There  is  a  man  here  in  the 
village  who  was  also  blessed  with  the  children." 

The  young  traveler  started  up  joyously.  "  Take 
me  to  him,"  he  entreated.  "  Let  me  talk  with  him ; 
that  is  what  I  have  come  here  seeking  —  another 
teacher." 

"  Nay,  friend  — "  began  one ;  but  another  hur 
riedly  whispered :  "  Let  us  not  tell  him.  Perhaps  he 
can  help."  And  so  the  first  speaker  finished :  "  I 


240  The  Children's  Blessing 

fear  you  will  not  find  him  like  your  teacher,  but  you 
shall  go;  it  is  only  a  step." 

And  they  guided  him,  all  but  impatient,  to  a  mean 
hovel  just  within  the  town.  There  they  left  him. 

It  was  a  man  with  a  dark,  bitter  face  that  answered 
his  knock.  "May  I  speak  with  Nemuel?"  the 
stranger  asked  courteously. 

"  I  am  Nemuel,"  growled  the  man  curtly. 

"  But  I  mean  Nemuel  who  was  one  of  the  children 
that  Jesus  blessed,"  persisted  the  young  traveler,  his 
face  softly  alight  as  the  name  passed  his  lips. 

"  Come  in;  I  am  the  man."  He  straightened 
proudly.  "  I  was  a  child  seven  years  old  when  I 
saw  Him  —  " 

He  stopped,  for  the  young  stranger,  pale  and  gasp 
ing,  broke  in :  "  You  saw  Him !  He  touched  you ! 
You  have  seen  His  face,  and  yet  your  own  —  forgive 
me,  friend.  But  my  master  was  also  one  of  the  chil 
dren  blessed  by  the  Christ,  and  he  was  .  .  . 
different."  He  hesitated,  still  looking  at  the  somber 
face  in  puzzled  distress. 

The  man  caught  the  young  stranger's  arm.  "  You 
knew  another  of  those  He  blessed?  Tell  me,  did  he 
have  great  wealth,  palaces,  honors?  Did  he  wait 
long?  Did  the  blessing  tarry  so  long  in  the  fulfil 
ment  as  with  me?  " 

The  young  stranger  shook  his  head  in  deep  be 
wilderment.  "  I  do  not  understand.  No,  he  had  no 


Virginia  Roderick  241 

wealth,  no  palaces,  no  honors.  He  followed  the 
Christ.  He  was  blessed  by  His  spirit.  Why,  how 
could  one  want  goods  and  honors  when  one  had  seen 
His  wonderful  smile,  when  His  arms  —  "  He  broke 
off,  gazing  at  his  host  in  appalled  incomprehension. 

Nemuel's  dark  face  grew  darker,  more  bitter. 
"  Then  there  is  no  blessing,  after  all,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  I  have  waited,  believing,  trusting.  I  have  kept  my 
life  clean.  I  have  kept  myself  holy  —  away  from 
those  He  had  not  touched  —  "  The  stranger  drew  a 
quick  breath  and  his  eyes  softened  with  pity.  "  I 
have  never  forgotten  that  I  was  blessed  above  others. 
And  now  there  is  no  blessing."  And  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

There  was  a  silence  and  then  the  young  stranger 
spoke  very  gently :  "  The  blessing  my  master  taught 
me,  was  for  all  children  —  for  all  childlike  faith  and 
trust  and  purity.  It  was  a  sanctification  of  the  child 
spirit." 

Nemuel  had  lifted  his  head  and  was  listening,  his 
eyes  fastened  wonderingly  on  the  stranger's  face. 

"  And  it  was  not  a  blessing  to  be  wrapped  up  in  a 
napkin.  It  was  not  one  to  bring  you  good  fortune, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  sorcerer's  charm.  It  was  a  bless 
ing  for  you  to  take  and  to  make  —  to  use  it  —  to  give 
it  to  others.  Through  you  He  blessed  all  children. 
.  .  .  And  yet  — "  the  stranger's  voice  deep 
ened  —  "  yet  there  was  something  Special  too." 


242  The  Children's  Blessing 

"What  was  it?"  Nemuel  breathed. 

The  stranger  bent  on  him  a  gaze  full  of  yearning. 
"  Have  you  not  remembered  His  face  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  His  wonderful  look  —  just  for  you  ?  "  There  was 
a  pleading  note  of  reproach  in  his  voice  as  he  leaned 
toward  Nemuel,  but  his  face  was  all  love  and 
tenderness. 

Nemuel  began  to  shake  his  head  slowly,  still  fixing 
the  stranger  with  his  gaze. 

"  No,"  he  confessed.  "  I  haven't  been  able  to  re 
member  —  not  for  years.  At  first  I  did.  Afterward 
I  knew  His  face  was  wonderful,  but  I  could  not  see 
it.  But  now  —  now  I  begin  to  remember  —  " 

The  young  stranger  waited  for  the  halting  words, 
his  face  lighting  softly  with  a  holy  hope  and  joy. 

"  Why,  your  face  — "  Nemuel  still  hesitated, 
groping,  and  then  suddenly  his  voice  rang  out  in 
triumph,  and  memory  dawned  clearly  in  his  eyes  — 
"why,  your  face  —  is  —  like  —  His!  Oh,  I  do 
remember !  —  and  —  I  begin  to  understand." 


Kitchener's  Mob 

From  The  Atlantic  Monthly 
By  James  Norman  Hall 

Trench-mortaring  was  more  to  our  liking.  That  is 
an  infantryman's  game,  and  while  extremely  hazard 
ous,  the  men  in  the  trenches  have  a  sporting  chance. 
Everyone  forgot  breakfast  when  word  was  passed 
down  the  line  that  we  were  going  to  "  mortarfy  " 
Fritzie.  Our  projectiles  were  immense  balls  of  hol 
low  steel,  filled  with  high  explosive.  Eagerly,  ex 
pectantly,  the  boys  gathered  in  the  first-line  trenches 
to  watch  the  fun.  First  a  dull  boom  from  the  reserve 
trench  in  rear  where  the  mortar  was  operated. 

"There  she  is!"  "See  'er?"  "Coin'  true  as  a 
die !  "  All  the  boys  would  be  shouting  at  once. 

Up  it  goes,  turning  over  and  over,  rising  to  a 
height  of  several  hundred  feet.  Then,  if  well  aimed, 
it  reaches  the  end  of  its  upward  journey  directly  over 
the  enemy's  line,  and  falls  straight  into  his  trench. 
There  is  a  moment  of  silence,  followed  by  a  terrific 
explosion  which  throws  dirt  and  debris  high  in  the 
air.  By  this  time,  the  Tommies  all  along  the  line  are 
standing  on  the  firing  benches,  head  and  shoulders 

243 


244  Kitchener's  Mob 

above  the  parapet,   forgetting  their  danger  in  their 

excitement,  and  shouting  at  the  top  of  their  yoices : 

"  'Ow's  that  one,  Fritzie  boy?  " 

"  Guten  morgen,  you  Proosian  sausage  wallopers !  " 

"  Tyke  a  bit  o'  that  there  'ome  to  yer  missus !  " 

But  Fritzie  kept  up  his  end  of  the  game,  always. 

He  gave  us  just  as  good  as  we  sent,  and  often  he 

added   something   for   good   measure.     His   surprise 

packages   were   sausage-shaped  missiles   which  came 

wobbling  toward  us,  slowly,  almost  awkwardly;  but 

they  dropped  with  lightning  speed.     The  explosion 

was  terrible,  and  alas  for  any  Tommy  who  misjudged 

the   place   of   its    fall!      However,    everyone   had    a 

chance.     Trench-mortar  projectiles  are  so  large,  and 

they  describe  so  leisurely  an  arc  before  they  fall,  that 

men  have  time  to  run. 

I've  always  admired  Tommy  Atkins  for  his  sense 
of  fair  play.  He  loved  giving  Fritz  "  a  little  bit  of 
all  right,"  but  he  never  resented  it  when  Fritz  had 
his  own  fun  at  our  expense.  I  used  to  believe,  in  the 
far-off  days  of  peace,  that  men  had  lost  their  old 
primal  love  for  dangerous  sport,  their  native  igno 
rance  of  fear.  But  on  those  trench-mortaring  days, 
when  I  watched  boys  playing  with  death  with  right 
good  zest,  heard  them  shouting  and  laughing  as  they 
tumbled  over  one  another  in  their  eagerness  to  escape 
being  killed,  I  was  convinced  that  I  was  vrrong. 
Daily  I  saw  men  going  through  the  test  of  fire 


James  Norman  Hall  245 

triumphantly,  and  at  the  last,  what  a  fearful  test  it 
was,  and  how  splendidly  they  met  it!  During  six 
months,  continuously  in  the  firing  line,  I  met  less  than 
a  dozen  natural-born  cowards;  and  my  experience 
was  largely  among  clerks,  barbers,  plumbers,  shop 
keepers,  men  who  had  no  fighting  tradition  to  back 
them  up,  to  make  them  heroic  in  spite  of  themselves. 

The  better  I  knew  Tommy,  the  better  I  liked  him. 
He  hasn't  a  shred  of  sentimentality  in  his  make-up. 
There  is  plenty  of  sentiment,  sincere  feeling,  but  it  is 
very  well  concealed.  I  had  been  a  soldier  of  the  King 
for  many  months  before  I  realized  that  the  men  with 
whom  I  was  living,  sharing  rations  and  hardships, 
were  anything  other  than  the  healthy  animals  they 
looked.  They  seemed  to  live  for  their  food.  They 
talked  of  it,  anticipated  it  with  the  zest  of  men  who 
were  experiencing  for  the  first  time  the  joy  of  being 
genuinely  hungry.  They  watched  their  muscles 
harden  with  the  satisfaction  known  to  every  normal 
man  when  he  is  becoming  physically  fit  for  the  first 
time.  But  they  said  nothing  about  patriotism,  or  the 
duty  of  Englishmen  in  wartime.  And  if  I  tried  to 
start  a  conversation  on  that  line,  they  walked  right 
over  me  with  their  boots  on. 

This  was  a  great  disappointment  at  first.  I  would 
never  have  known,  from  anything  that  was  said,  that 
a  man  of  them  was  stirred  at  the  thought  of  fighting 
for  old  England.  England  was  all  right,  but,  "  I 


246  Kitchener's  Mob 

ain't  a-goin'  balmy  about  the  old  flag  and  all  that 
stuff."  Many  of  them  insisted  that  they  were  in  the 
army  for  personal  and  selfish  reasons  alone.  They 
went  out  of  their  way  to  ridicule  any  and  every  indi 
cation  of  sentiment. 

There  was  the  matter  of  talk  about  mothers,  for 
example.  I  can't  imagine  this  being  the  case  in  a 
volunteer  army  of  American  boys;  but  never,  during 
sixteen  months  of  British  army  life,  did  I  hear  a  dis 
cussion  of  mothers.  When  the  weekly  parcels  post 
from  England  arrived,  and  the  boys  were  sharing 
their  cake  and  chocolate  and  tobacco,  one  of  them 
would  say,  "  Good  old  mum.  She  ain't  a  bad  sort," 
to  be  answered  with  reluctant,  mouth-filled  grunts,  or 
grudging  nods  of  approval.  As  for  fathers,  I  often 
thought  to  myself,  "  This  is  certainly  a  tremendous 
army  of  posthumous  sons !  "  Months  before  I  should 
have  been  astonished  at  this  reticence.  But  I  had 
learned  to  understand  Tommy.  His  silences  were  as 
eloquent  as  any  splendid  outbursts  or  glowing  tributes 
could  have  been.  It  was  a  matter  of  constant  wonder 
to  me  that  men  living  in  the  daily  and  hourly  presence 
of  death  could  so  control  and  conceal  their  feelings. 
Their  talk  was  of  anything  but  home ;  and  yet  I  knew 
that  they  thought  of  little  else. 

One  of  our  boys  was  killed,  and  there  was  a  letter 
to  be  written  to  his  parents.  Three  Tommies  who 
knew  him  best  were  to  attempt  this.  They  made 


James  Norman  Hall  247 

innumerable  beginnings.  Each  of  them  was  afraid  of 
blundering,  of  causing  unnecessary  pain  by  an 
indelicate  revelation  of  the  facts.  There  was  a 
feminine  fineness  about  their  concern  which  was 
beautiful  to  see.  The  final  draft  of  the  letter  was  a 
masterpiece,  not  of  English,  but  of  insight;  such  a 
letter  as  any  one  of  us  would  have  liked  his  own 
parents  to  receive  under  similar  circumstances. 
Nothing  was  forgotten  which  could  make  the  news 
in  the  slightest  degree  more  endurable.  Every  trifling 
personal  belonging  was  carefully  saved  up  and  packed 
in  a  little  box  to  follow  the  letter.  All  this  was  done 
amid  much  boisterous  jesting;  and  there  was  hilarious 
singing  to  the  wheezing  accompaniment  of  an  old 
mouth-organ.  But  of  reference  to  home,  or  mothers, 
or  comradeship,  not  a  word. 

Rarely  a  night  passed  without  its  burial  parties. 
"  Digging  in  the  garden,"  Tommy  calls  the  grave- 
making.  The  bodies,  wrapped  in  blankets  or  water 
proof  ground-sheets,  are  lifted  over  the  parados  and 
carried  back  a  convenient  twenty  yards  or  more. 
The  desolation  of  that  garden  was  indescribable.  It 
was  strewn  with  wreckage,  gaping  with  shell-holes, 
billowing  with  numberless  nameless  graves,  a  waste 
land  speechlessly  pathetic.  The  poplars  and  willow 
hedges  had  been  blasted  and  splintered  by  shell-fire. 
Tommy  calls  these  "  Kaiser  Bill's  flowers."  Coming 
from  England,  he  feels  more  deeply  than  he  would 


248  Kitchener's  Mob 

care  to  admit  the  crimes  done  to  trees  in  the  name 
of  war. 

Our  chaplain  was  a  devout  man,  but  prudent  to  a 
fault.  He  never  visited  us  in  the  trenches ;  therefore 
our  burial  parties  proceeded  without  the  rites  of  the 
church.  This  arrangement  was  highly  satisfactory  to 
Tommy.  He  liked  to  "  get  the  planting  done  "  with 
the  least  possible  delay  or  fuss.  His  whispered  con 
versations,  while  the  graves  were  being  scooped,  were, 
to  say  the  least,  quite  out  of  the  spirit  of  the  occasion. 
Once  we  were  burying  two  boys  with  whom  we  had 
been  having  a  supper  a  few  hours  before.  There 
was  an  artillery  duel  in  progress,  the  shells  whistling 
high  over  our  heads  and  bursting  in  great  splotches 
of  white  fire,  far  in  rear  of  the  opposing  lines  of 
trenches.  The  grave-making  went  speedily  on  while 
the  diggers  argued  in  whispers  as  to  the  calibre  of  the 
guns.  Some  said  they  were  six-inch,  while  others 
thought  nine-inch.  Discussion  was  momentarily  sus 
pended  when  trench-rockets  went  soaring  up  from  the 
enemy's  line.  We  crouched  motionless  until  the  wel 
come  darkness  spread  again.  And  then,  in  loud 
whispers  — 

"'Ere!  If  they  was  nine-inch  they  would  'ave 
more  screech." 

And  one  of  different  opinion  would  reply: 

"  Don't  talk  so  bloomin'  silly !  Ain't  I  a-tellin'  you 
you  can't  always  size  'em  by  the  screech  ?  " 


James  Norman  Hall  249 

Not  a  prayer.  Not  a  word  either  of  censure  or 
praise  for  the  boys  who  had  gone.  Not  an  expression 
of  opinion  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  great  change 
which  had  come  to  them  and  which  might  come  as 
suddenly  to  any  or  all  of  us.  And  yet  I  knew  that 
every  man  was  thinking  of  these  things. 

There  were  days  when  the  front  was  really  quiet. 
The  thin  trickle  of  rifle-fire  only  accentuated  the  still 
ness  of  an  early  summer  morning.  Far  down  the 
line  many  a  Tommy  could  be  heard  singing  to  him 
self  as  he  sat  in  the  door  of  his  dug-out,  cleaning  his 
rifle.  There  would  be  the  pleasant  crackle  of  burning 
pine  sticks,  the  sizzle  of  frying  bacon,  the  lazy 
buzzing  of  swarms  of  bluebottle  flies.  Occasionally, 
across  a  pool  of  noonday  silence,  we  heard  the  birds 
singing;  for  they  didn't  desert  us.  When  we  gave 
them  a  hearing,  they  did  their  cheery  little  best  to 
assure  us  that  everything  would  come  right  in  the  end. 
Once  we  heard  a  skylark,  an  English  skylark,  and  for 
a  while  it  made  the  world  beautiful  again.  It  was  a 
fine  thing  to  watch  the  faces  of  those  English  lads  as 
they  listened.  I  was  deeply  touched  when  one  of 
them  said,  "  Ain't  'e  a  plucky  little  chap,  singin'  right 
in  front  of  Fritzie's  trenches  fer  us  English  blokes?  " 

It  was  a  sincere  and  beautiful  tribute. 


The   Professor 

By  Calista  Halsey  Patchin 

The  professor  had  been  dead  two  months.  He 
had  left  the  world  very  quietly,  at  that  precise  hour 
of  the  early  evening  when  he  was  accustomed  to  say 
that  his  "  spirit  friends  "  came  to  him.  The  hospital 
nurse  had  noticed  that  there  was  always  a  time  at 
twilight  when  the  patient  had  a  good  hour;  when 
pain  and  restlessness  seemed  to  be  charmed  away,  and 
he  did  not  mind  being  left  alone,  and  did  not  care 
whether  or  not  there  was  a  light  in  the  room.  Then 
it  was  that  those  who  had  gone  came  back  to  him 
with  quiet,  friendly  ways  and  loving  touch.  He  said 
nothing  of  this  to  the  nurse.  It  was  an  old  friend 
who  told  me  that  this  had  been  his  belief  and  solace 
for  years. 

When  the  professor  had  first  come  to  town  he  had 
spoken  of  the  wife  who  would  follow  him  shortly, 
from  the  East.  He  did  not  display  her  picture,  he 
did  not  talk  about  her  enough  so  that  the  town, 
though  it  made  an  honest  effort,  ever  really  visualized 
her.  She  would  come  —  without  a  doubt  she  would 
come  —  but  not  just  yet.  It  was  only  that  the  East 

250 


Calista  Halsey  Patchin  251 

still  held  her.  Gradually,  he  spoke  of  her  less  and 
less  often,  with  a  dignified  reserve  that  brooked  no 
inquiry,  and  finally  not  at  all. 

The  town  forgot.  It  was  only  when  his  illness 
became  so  serious  that  all  felt  someone  should  be 
written  to,  that  it  was  discovered  there  was  no  one. 
The  professor,  when  he  was  appealed  to,  said  so. 
Then  also,  the  hospital  nurse  noticed  that  at  the  twi 
light  hour,  when  he  talked  quietly  to  his  unseen 
friends,  there  was  always  One  who  stayed  longer 
than  the  rest. 

But  he  had  been  dead  two  months  now,  and  the 
undertaker  was  pressing  his  bill,  and  there  were 
other  expenses  which  had  been  cheerfully  borne  by 
friends  at  the  time,  and  indeed  if  there  had  been  no 
other  reason,  it  remains  that  something  must  become 
of  the  personal  possessions  of  a  man  who  leaves 
neither  will  nor  known  heirs.  So  the  professor's 
effects  were  appraised,  and  a  brief  local  appeared  in 
the  daily  paper  until  it  had  made  a  dent  in  the  mem 
ory  of  the  public,  apprising  them  that  his  personal 
property  would  be  offered  at  public  auction  at  two 
p.  M.  of  a  Thursday,  in  his  rooms  on  the  third  floor 
of  the  Eureka  Block. 

It  was  the  merest  thread  of  curiosity  that  drew  me 
to  this  sale.  I  did  not  want  to  buy  anything.  It  was 
a  sort  of  posthumous  curiosity,  and  it  concerned 
itself  solely  with  the  individuality  of  the  dead  man. 


252  The  Professor 

Not  having  had  the  opportunity  of  knowing  him  well 
in  life,  and  never  having  known  until  I  read  his 
obituary  what  I  had  missed,  I  took  this  last  chance 
of  trying  to  evolve  ^the  man  from  his  belongings.  All 
I  did  know  was  that  he  was  a  teacher  of  music  of  the 
past  generation  in  a  Western  town  which  grew  so 
fast  that  it  made  a  man  seem  older  than  he  was. 
More  than  this,  he  was  a  composer,  a  music  master, 
who  took  crude  young  voices,  shrill  with  the  tension 
of  the  Western  winds  and  the  electric  air,  and  tamed 
and  trained  them  till  they  fell  in  love  with  harmony. 
When  he  heard  a  voice  he  knew  it.  One  of  his  con 
traltos  is  singing  now  in  grand  opera  across  the  sea. 
A  tenor  that  he  discovered  has  charmed  the  world 
with  an  "  upper  note." 

All  the  same,  the  professor  had  grown  old  —  a 
new  generation  had  arisen  which  knew  not  Joseph; 
he  failed  to  advertise,  and  every  young  girl  who 
"  gave  lessons  "  crowded  him  closer  to  the  wall.  Now 
and  then  there  would  appear  in  the  daily  paper  — 
not  the  next  morning,  but  a  few  days  after  the  pres 
entation  of  some  opera  —  a  column  of  musical  criti 
cism,  keen,  delicate,  reminiscent  —  fragrant  with  the 
rosemary  that  is  for  remembrance.  When  "  Elijah  " 
was  given  by  home  talent  with  soloists  imported  from 
Chicago,  it  was  the  professor  who  kindly  wrote, 
beforehand  this  time,  luminous  articles  full  of  sympa 
thetic  interpretation  of  the  great  masters.  And  at 


Calista  Halsey  Patchin  253 

rare  intervals  there  would  appear  a  communication 
from  him  on  the  beauty  of  the  woods  and  the  fields, 
the  suburbs  of  the  town  and  the  country,  as  though 
he  were  some  simple  prophet  of  nature  who  stood 
by  the  wayside.  And  this  was  no  affectation.  Long, 
solitary  walks  were  his  recreation. 

It  was  a  good  deal  of  a  rookery,  up  the  flights  of 
narrow,  dirty  stairs  to  the  third  floor  of  the  Eureka 
Block.  And  here  the  professor  had  lived  and  taught. 
Two  rooms  were  made  from  one  by  the  sort  of  par 
tition  which  does  not  reach  to  the  ceiling  —  a  ceiling 
which  for  some  inexplicable  reason  was  higher  in 
some  places  than  in  others. 

The  voice  of  the  auctioneer  came  down  that  wind 
ing  way  in  professional  cadences.  There  were  in 
the  room  about  as  many  people  as  might  come  to  a 
funeral  where  only  friends  of  the  family  are  invited. 
It  was  very  still.  The  auctioneer  took  an  easy  conver 
sational  tone.  There  was  a  silent,  forlorn  sort  of 
dignity  about  the  five  pianos  standing  in  a  row  that 
put  professional  banter  and  cheap  little  jokes  out  of 
the  question.  The  pianos  went  without  much  trouble 
—  a  big  one  of  the  best  make,  an  old-fashioned  cot 
tage  piano,  a  piano  with  an  iron  frame.  One  of  the 
appraisers,  himself  a  musician,  became  an  assistant 
auctioneer,  and  kindly  played  a  little  —  judiciously 
very  little  —  on  each  instrument  in  turn. 

Then  came  the  bric-a-brac  of  personal  effects  —  all 


254  The  Professor 

the  flotsam  and  jetsam  that  had  floated  into  these 
rooms  for  years.  The  walls  were  pockmarked  with 
pictures,  big  and  little.  There  was  no  attempt  at 
high  art;  the  professor  had  bought  a  picture  as  a 
child  might  buy  one  —  because  he  thought  it  was 
pretty.  It  was  a  curious  showing  of  how  one  artistic 
faculty  may  be  dormant  while  another  is  cultivated 
to  its  highest  point.  But  no  matter  how  cheap  the 
picture,  it  was  always  conscientiously  framed.  And 
this  was  a  great  help  to  the  auctioneer.  Indeed,  it 
was  difficult  to  see  how  he  could  have  cried  the 
pictures  at  all  without  the  frames. 

By  this  time  the  rooms  were  fuller  of  people. 
There  were  ladies  who  had  come  in  quietly,  just  to 
get  some  little  thing  for  a  remembrance  of  their  old 
friend  and  teacher.  These  mostly  went  directly  over 
to  the  corner  where  the  music  lay  and  began  looking 
for  something  of  "  his."  If  it  were  manuscript 
music  so  much  the  better.  But  there  was  little  of 
this.  It  appeared  that  with  the  professor,  as  with 
most  of  us,  early  and  middle  manhood  had  been  his 
most  productive  time,  and  that  was  long  enough  ago 
for  everything  to  have  been  duly  published  in  sheet 
and  book  form  —  long  enough,  indeed,  for  the  books 
themselves  to  have  gone  out  of  date. 

There  they  were  —  long,  green  notebooks,  bearing 
the  familiar  names  of  well  known  publishers,  and 
with  such  a  hydra-head  of  title  as  "  The  Celestina, 


Calista  Halsey  Patchin  255 

or  New  Sacred  Minstrel;  a  Repository  of  Music 
adapted  to  every  variety  of  taste  and  grade  of 
capacity,  from  the  million  to  the  amateur  or  pro 
fessor." 

There  were  four  or  five  of  these.  There  was  sheet 
music  by  the  pile.  There  was  an  opera,  "  Joseph," 
the  production  of  which  had  been  a  musical  event. 

Presently  the  auctioneer  came  that  way.  He  had 
just  sold  a  large  oleograph,  framed,  one  of  those 
gorgeous  historical  pictures  which  are  an  apotheosis 
of  good  clothes.  He  approached  an  engraving  of 
an  old-fashioned  lady  in  voluminous  muslin  draperies, 
with  her  hair  looped  away  from  her  face  in  a  "  Book 
of  Beauty  "  style. 

"  He  liked  that,"  murmured  a  lady. 

"  What  do  I  hear !  "  cries  the  auctioneer,  softly. 
"  Oh,  such  a  little  bid  as  that  —  I  can't  see  it  at  all  in 
this  dark  corner.  Suppose  we  throw  these  peaches 
in  —  awfully  pretty  thing  for  dining  room  —  and  this 
flower  piece  —  shall  we  group  these  three  ?  —  now, 
how  much  for  all  ?  Ah,  there  they  go !  " 

"  Here,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  a  gold-headed  cane 
which  was  presented  to  the  deceased  by  his  admiring 
friends.  It  is  pure  gold  —  you  know  they  would  not 
give  him  anything  else.  How  much  for  this?  How 
much?  No  —  his  name  is  not  engraved  on  it  —  so 
much  the  better  —  what  do  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Look  at  this  telescope,  gentlemen  —  a  good  one 


256  The  Professor 

—  you  know  the  professor  was  quite  an  astronomer 
in  his  way  —  and  this  telescope  is  all  right  —  sound 
and  in  good  condition "  —  the  auctioneer  had  offi 
ciated  at  a  stock  sale  the  day  before.  "  You  can  look 
right  into  futurity  through  this  tube.  Five  dollars' 
worth  of  futurity  ?  Five  —  five  and  a  half  ?  Case 
and  all  complete." 

There  was  a  pocketful  of  odds  and  ends;  gold  pens, 
lead  pencils,  some  odd  pocket  knives;  these  incon 
siderable  trifles  brought  more  in  proportion  than 
articles  of  greater  intrinsic  value.  Evidently  this  was 
an  auction  of  memories,  of  emotion,  of  sentiment. 

There  was  a  bit  of  the  beam  of  the  barn  that  was 
burned  down  when  the  cow  kicked  over  the  historic 
lamp  that  inaugurated  the  Chicago  fire  —  no  less  than 
three  persons  were  ready  to  testify  to  their  belief 
in  the  genuineness  of  the  relic,  had  anyone  been  dis 
posed  to  question  it.  But  no  one  was.  Nearly  all  the 
people  in  the  room  were  the  dead  music  teacher's 
personal  friends ;  they  had  heard  the  story  of  all  these 
things;  they  knew  who  had  sent  him  the  stuffed 
brown  prairie  chicken  that  perched  like  a  raven  above 
the  door  —  the  little  old-fashioned  decanter  and  wine 
glasses  of  gilded  glass  —  the  artificial  begonias  —  that 
clever  imitation  that  goes  far  toward  making  one 
forswear  begonias  forevermore.  There  were  lamps 
of  various  shapes  and  sizes,  there  was  a  kit  of  bur 
glarious  looking  tools  for  piano  tuning,  there  was  a 


Calista  Halsey  Patchin  257 

little  globe —  "Who  wants  the  earth?"  said  the 
auctioneer.  "  You  all  want  it." 

There  was  a  metronome,  which,  set  to  go,  began 
to  count  time  in  a  metallic  whisper  for  some  invis 
ible  pupil.  Over  in  the  corner  just  beyond  the  music 
were  the  professor's  books.  Now  we  shall  find  him 
out,  for  what  a  man  reads  he  is,  or  wishes  to  be. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  spiritualistic  literature  of 
the  better  sort.  There  was  a  "  History  of  Chris 
tianity  and  Paganism  by  the  Roman  Emperor  Julian," 
a  copy  of  "  She,"  a  long  shelf  full  of  North  American 
Reviews,  a  dozen  or  so  of  almanacs,  a  copy  of  Blue 
beard.  There  were  none  of  the  "  popular "  mag 
azines,  and  if  there  had  been  newspapers  —  those 
vagrants  of  literature  —  they  had  gone  their  way. 
There  was  a  manuscript  play  for  parlor  presentation, 
with  each  part  written  out  in  legible  script,  entitled, 
"  The  Winning  Card." 

All  these  and  many  more  things  which  only  the 
patient  appraisers  can  fully  know  were  sold  or  set 
aside  as  unsalable,  until  all  was  done.  And  then  those 
who  had  known  and  loved  him  and  those  who  had 
not  known  or  cared  for  him  came  down  the  stairs 
together. 

Fate  stood  on  the  landing.  As  always,  Fate  ran 
true  to  form.  She  was  a  woman;  a  little  tired,  as 
a  woman  might  well  be  who  had  come  a  thousand 
miles;  a  little  out  of  breath  from  the  two  flights 


258  The  Professor 

of  stairs.  Her  old-fashioned  draperies  clung  about 
her;  her  hair  was  looped  away  from  her  face  in  a 
"  Book  of  Beauty  "  style.  The  man  who  stood  aside 
to  let  her  pass  was  talking.  "  Of  course,"  he  was  say 
ing,  "  he  was  a  side-tracked  man.  But  I  believe 
he  stands  the  biggest  chance  of  being  remembered  of 
any  man  in  Iowa." 

Swift  protest  at  his  first  words  clouded  her  face; 
sheer  gratitude  for  his  last  words  illumined  it.  She 
bent  forward  a  little  and  went  on  up  the  stairs  alone,. 

She  faltered  in  the  doorway,  her  hand  fumbling 
at  her  throat.  One  of  the  men  who  had  been 
talking  below  hastened  to  her  side. 

"  It's  all  over,"  he  said,  then  added,  at  the  dumb 
misery  that  grayed  her  face :  "  —  the  auction." 

"I  —  I  —  didn't  come  for  that,"  the  apathy  in 
her  voice  holding  it  steady.  "I  —  I  am  his  wife. 
His  last  letter  —  he  sent  for  me."  A  sob  broke  her 
speech.  "  It  came  last  week  —  two  months  too  late." 


^rr^jg 

.^^^U 
•=^L  -  ^  ^^ 

What  the  Iowa  Boy  Hears  in  the  Wind  in  the  Corn 


My  Baby's  Horse 

By  Emilie  Blackmore  Stapp 

My  baby's  horse  is  Daddy's  knee; 
When  nighttime  comes  he  rides  away 
To  Sleepytown  by  Dreamland  Sea; 
I  love  to  hear  their  laughter  gay. 

Ride,  baby,  ride,  the  Sandman  bold 
Is  following  close  behind  you,  dear, 
But  Daddy's  arms  will  you  enfold 
And  so  for  you  I  have  no  fear. 

Your  prancing  steed  is  slowing  down; 
The  Sandman's  riding  very  fast. 
Oh,  here  you  are  at  Sleepytown; 
The  Sandman's  caught  you,  dear,  at  last. 

He'll  tie  your  steed  by  Dreamland  Sea, 
And  on  its  shores  all  night  you'll  play, 
Then  you'll  come  riding  home  to  me 
To  make  life  sweet  another  day. 


261 


The  Call  of  the  Race 

By  Elizabeth  Cooper 

It  was  the  last  day  of  September,  the  maple  trees 
were  turning  to  red  and  gold,  the  mist  of  purple 
haze  was  in  the  air,  and  all  Japan  was  going  to  the 
parks  and  woods  to  revel  in  the  colors  they  loved  so 
well. 

Three  men  came  out  of  the  American  Embassy, 
and  looked  for  a  moment  over  the  roofs  below  them, 
half  conscious  of  the  beauty  of  this  autumn  time. 
They  chatted  for  a  few  moments,  then  one  of  them 
motioned  to  a  servant  to  put  his  mail  bag  in  the 
jinrickshaw  and  slowly  stepping  into  the  tiny  carriage 
he  was  whirled  away. 

The  other  men  watched  him  for  a  few  moments 
in  silence,  then  as  they  turned  to  go  to  the  English 
club,  the  elder  shook  his  head  slowly  as  he  rather 
viciously  bit  the  end  from  his  cigar. 

"  Freeman's  made  a  big  fool  of  himself,"  he  said. 
"  Nice  man,  too." 

The  younger  man  looked  after  the  fast  disappear 
ing  jinrickshaw  and  asked  after  a  moment's  hesi 
tation  : 

262 


Elizabeth  Cooper  263 

"  He's  married  a  Jap,  hasn't  he  ?  I'm  new  here 
but  I  have  heard  something  about  him  that's  queer." 

"  Yes,"  the  Ambassador  replied.  "  Married  her, 
preacher,  ring,  the  whole  thing." 

"How  did  it  happen?  Why  did  he  marry  her?" 
the  younger  man  asked  with  a  laugh. 

"We  all  talked  to  him.  I  talked  to  him  like  a 
father,  but  he  wouldn't  listen  to  reason.  Saw  her 
at  the  mission  school,  fell  head  and  heels  in  love  with 
her  and  wouldn't  take  anyone's  advice.  Even  the 
missionary  was  against  it.  Told  him  that  mixed 
marriages  never  came  out  right;  that  the  girl  always 
reverted  to  type,"  said  the  Ambassador  a  little 
bitterly. 

"  Well,  has  it  turned  out  as  they  predicted  ? " 
inquired  the  secretary  interestedly. 

"  Well,  no,"  admitted  the  Ambassador.  "  It's  been 
two  years,  and  everything  seems  to  be  all  right  so 
far.  No  one  ever  sees  much  of  either  of  them. 
You  meet  her  with  him  once  in  a  while  in  some 
garden  admiring  the  wistaria,  or  the  lotus.  She's  a 
beauty  —  a  real  beauty  —  and  belongs  to  one  of  the 
old  Samurai  families  up  north  somewhere." 

"How  did  the  mission  get  her?  I  thought  they 
went  in  more  for  the  lower  classes,"  asked  the 
secretary. 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  some  missionary  up  north 
saw  her  and  was  attracted  by  her  cleverness  and  her 


264  The  Call  of  the  Race 

pretty  face,  and  she  persuaded  the  girl's  parents  to 
send  her  to  school  here.  They're  as  poor  as  Job's 
turkey ;  but  they  live  in  a  great  old  palace  and  observe 
all  the  old  time  Jap  customs.  Haven't  changed  a  bit 
for  centuries.  The  real  thing  in  old-time  aristocracy. 
But  the  missionary  got  past  them  some  way  and  the 
girl  came  down  —  when  was  it  ?  —  six  years  ago,  I 
think.  Missionary  says  she's  clever,  has  become  a 
Christian,  and  evidently  forgotten  that  she's  a  Jap." 

"  It'll  perhaps  be  the  exception  that  proves  that  all 
mixed  marriages  are  not  failures,"  said  the  optimistic 
secretary. 

"  No,"  said  the  older  man,  "  I  know  Japan  and  the 
Japanese.  There's  something  in  them  that  never 
changes  —  the  call  of  the  blood  or  whatever  it  is. 
No  matter  how  much  education  they  have,  change 
of  religion,  life  in  foreign  countries  —  anything  — 
they're  Japanese,  and  in  a  crisis  they  go  back  to  their 
gods  and  the  instincts  of  their  race.  We  all  told 
Freeman  this  —  the  missionary,  myself,  everybody 
took  a  hit  at  him  when  we  found  he  really  meant 
business,  but  he  only  laughed.  He  said  Yuki  was  as 
European  as  he  was.  Never  thought  of  the  gods, 
hardly  remembered  her  people,  and  all  that  rot.  He 
ought  to  know  better :  this  is  his  second  post  in  Japan. 
Was  out  here  twelve  years  ago  and  got  in  some  kind 
of  trouble.  I  was  surprised  when  the  government  sent 
him  back ;  but  I  suppose  they  thought  it  had  all  blown 


Elizabeth  Cooper  265 

over,  and  I  presume  it  has,  although  the  Japs  don't 
forget." 

The  Ambassador  was  quiet  for  a  few  moments, 
then  he  said: 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  at  all  in  intermarriage  between 
the  Oriental  and  the  Occidental.  Their  traditions, 
customs,  everything  is  different.  They  have  no  com 
mon  meeting  ground,  and  that  racial  instinct,  that 
inherent  something  is  stronger  in  the  Oriental  than 
in  the  Westerner.  A  woman  here  in  this  country, 
for  example,  is  taught  from  babyhood  that  she  must 
obey  her  parents,  her  clan,  absolutely.  Her  family 
is  first,  and  she  must  sacrifice  her  life  if  necessary 
for  them,  and  they  will  go  to  any  lengths  in  this 
obedience.  I  told  this  to  Freeman,  everyone  did,  but 
he  just  gave  his  happy  laugh,  and  said  that  his  wife- 
to-be  was  no  more  Japanese  in  feeling  and  sentiment 
than  he  was  —  that  she  had  outgrown  the  old  religion, 
the  old  beliefs.  He  laughed  at  the  idea  that  her 
family  would  have  any  influence  over  her  after  she 
was  his  wife.  Yet — I  know  these  people  —  and 
have  always  been  a  little  worried  —  " 

The  two  men  chatted  until  they  entered  the  doors 
of  the  English  club. 

Morris  Freeman  with  his  fast  runner  was  drawn 
swiftly  through  the  modern  streets  of  new  Japan, 
then  more  slowly  through  the  little  alleys,  where  the 
shops  were  purely  native.  Finally  he  drew  up  at  an 


266  The  Call  of  the  Race 

entrance  and  stopped  under  the  tiny  roof  of  a  gate 
way.  He  had  been  expected,  evidently,  because  no 
sooner  had  he  stopped  than  the  great  gate  was  swung 
open  and  a  smiling  servant  stood  in  the  entrance. 
Freeman  handed  him  the  mail  bag  and  said : 

"  Tell  the  Ok  San  that  I  will  be  back  in  about  an 
hour/'  and  was  taken  swiftly  up  the  street.  The 
coolie  at  the  gate  was  still  watching  the  disappear 
ing  jinrickshaw  when  a  Japanese  approached,  and 
bowing  to  the  servant  asked :  "  Is  your  mistress 
within  ?  "  The  servant  answered  in  the  affirmative, 
looking  at  him  interestedly,  as  he  was  different  from 
the  average  man  one  sees  in  Tokio.  He  was  dressed 
in  an  old-time  costume  that  immediately  told  the  city- 
bred  servant  that  the  man  was  from  some  distant 
province. 

The  visitor  went  to  the  veranda,  dropped  his  clogs, 
and  entered  the  doorway.  A  young  girl  was  kneeling 
before  a  koto  lightly  strumming  its  strings  and  did 
not  hear  the  entrance  of  the  man.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  around  the  room;  then  he  saw  Yuki 
and  walking  over  to  her  sat  down  facing  her.  Yuki 
stared  at  him  first  in  astonishment;  then  a  look  of 
fear  came  into  her  black  eyes.  He  was  silent  for 
many  minutes,  then  he  coolly  remarked : 

"  You  do  not  speak  to  your  uncle.  You  do  not 
care  to  make  me  welcome  in  this  your  home."  He 
looked  down  at  her  contemptuously. 


Elizabeth  Cooper  267 

She  saluted  him,  touching  her  head  to  her  folded 
hands  upon  the  floor.  After  a  few  polite  phrases 
she  rose,  went  to  the  hibachi,  fanned  the  flame  a 
moment,  poured  water  from  the  kettle  into  the  teapot, 
and  brought  a  tiny  tray  on  which  was  a  cup  and  the 
pot  of  tea.  She  poured  out  the  tea,  and,  taking  the 
cup  in  both  hands,  slid  it  across  the  floor  to  him; 
when  he  took  it,  she  again  touched  her  head  to  the 
floor,  and  inquired: 

"  I  trust  my  honorable  Uncle  is  in  the  enjoyment 
of  good  health?" 

The  man  sipped  the  tea  slowly,  gazing  around  the 
room,  taking  in  all  its  details.  His  eyes  especially 
rested  upon  the  shrine  in  the  corner.  Then  he 
regarded  her  long  and  intently. 

"  I  see  you  have  brought  your  family  shrine  to  the 
house  of  the  foreigner  with  whom  you  live  —  the 
man  who  has  made  you  forget  your  people.  Have 
you  opened  it;  do  you  offer  the  daily  incense;  or  is 
it  simply  an  article  of  furniture  for  your  foreign 
husband  to  admire  ?  " 

Yuki  said  nothing;  she  could  not  explain  to  this 
old  man  that  the  shrine  had  meant  nothing  to  her, 
but  having  come  from  her  old  home  she  had  kept 
it  simply  as  a  remembrance  of  the  past. 

Not  receiving  an  answer  the  man  continued: 

''  The  foreigner  is  kind  to  you?  " 

Yuki  smiled  and  said  softly  to  herself :     "  Kind  — 


268  The  Call  of  the  Race 

kind  —  my  Dana  San."  Then  seeing  her  uncle 
expected  an  answer,  she  said  in  a  quiet  tone: 

"  Most  kind,  my  honorable  Uncle." 

"  You  wonder  why  I  come  to  you  to-night  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

Yuki  took  the  tea-things  and  put  them  behind  her, 
then  remarked: 

"  My  humble  house  is  honored  by  your  presence." 

"  Honored,  yes,"  sneered  the  uncle.  "  But  still  you 
wonder.  I  will  tell  you  why  I  came  to  you  to-night. 
Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  family  in  Japan  — 
happy,  honored  —  proud  of  their  title,  of  their  his 
tory —  and,  more  than  all,  proud  of  their  overlord. 
He  was  impetuous,  and  like  many  of  the  older 
Japanese,  resentful  of  the  foreigner's  intrusion. 
Here,  one  day  on  a  visit  to  his  capital,  he  met  a 
stranger,  one  of  that  hated  race  who  spoke  slight 
ingly  of  his  country,  of  his  gods.  There  was  the 
quick  retort,  the  blow,  and  he  our  lord  went  to  the 
Land  of  Shadows.  The  evil  gods  of  the  foreigner 
protected  the  man  who  gave  the  blow.  His  name  was 
never  discovered  —  it  was  claimed  he  did  the  cow 
ardly  act  in  self-defense  and  he  got  safely  away." 

Yuki  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"Oh,  it  is  of  my  honorable  father  you  speak?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  of  your  father  I  speak,"  said  the  man 
in  a  low,  bitter  voice.  "  Since  his  death  the  gods 
have  not  favored  our  house;  we  have  lost  position, 


Elizabeth  Cooper  269 

money,  everything.  But  at  last  —  at  last  our  prayers 
to  the  gods  have  been  answered.  The  enemy  of  our 
house  is  delivered  into  our  hands  —  into  your  hands." 

Yuki  looked  bewildered. 

"My  hands?  What  do  you  mean,  my  honorable 
Uncle?" 

"  Yuki  San,  we  have  learned  the  name  of  the  man 
who  struck  your  father !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  low,  tense 
voice. 

Yuki  looked  at  the  tragic  face  before  her  a  moment, 
then  she  said:  "At  last,  at  last  you  know?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  her  uncle.  "  At  last,  after  all  these 
years  of  patience,  revenge  is  in  our  hands.  Oh,  Yuki 
San,  the  foreigner,  your  husband,  is  the  man  who 
killed  your  father." 

Yuki  drew  back,  her  face  pallid,  her  body 
trembling. 

"  Morris,  my  Dana  San?  " 

"  Yes,  your  Dana  San." 

Yuki  sat  for  a  moment  in  bewilderment,  then  the 
color  came  back  to  her  face  and  she  leaned  forward 
eagerly. 

"  But,  my  lord,  my  lord,  he  could  not  have  done  it ! 
He  is  so  kind,  so  good,  he  never  hurt  a  thing  in  all 
his  life." 

The  man  leaned  forward,  gazing  intently  into  her 
eyes. 

"Has  this  stranger  made  you  forget  your  father? 


270  The  Call  of  the  Race 

Have  you  forgotten  your  oath,  your  oath?  Have 
you  forgotten  why  your  father  is  now  in  the  Land 
of  Shadows  ?  "  He  pointed  to  the  shrine. 

"  Look,  there  is  his  tablet  within  that  shrine.  But 
the  doors  are  closed.  In  our  home,  in  our  family 
temple  are  tablets.  The  doors  of  the  shrines  have 
never  been  opened.  His  spirit  has  not  had  the  incense 
to  help  him  on  the  way.  The  morning  offering  has 
not  been  his.  He  has  been  compelled  to  travel  alone 
on  the  way  to  the  gods,  because  we,  his  family  — 
you  and  I  —  have  not  avenged  his  death. 

"  No,  do  not  speak,"  he  continued,  as  Yuki  was 
about  to  interrupt.  "  He  was  murdered,  and  until 
the  man  who  sent  him  on  his  way  joins  him  in  his 
journey,  his  spirit  can  have  no  peace.  And  you,  his 
daughter,  dare  not,  for  fear  of  the  gods,  open  the 
shrine  to  make  the  offering  that  the  poorest  peasant 
makes  to  his  dead!  But  to-night  I  bring  you  the 
final  word  of  the  clan.  To  give  you  the  honor  of 
doing  the  deed  that  will  wash  the  stain  from  our 
name.  You  know  that  a  servant  must  avenge  the 
death  of  his  master,  a  son  that  of  his  father,  a 
Samurai  the  death  of  his  overlord,  and  I  come  to 
give  you  —  a  girl,  an  inheritance  that  will  make  you 
envied  of  men." 

"  I  do  not  understand  —  my  lord,  you  mean  —  " 

"  Yuki  San,  he  killed  your  father,  the  head  of  our 
house,  and  he  must  die  to-night." 


Elizabeth  Cooper  271 


Yuki  rose  and  went  to  the  man.  Taking  him  by 
the  arms  she  looked  up  into  his  face  piteously,  with 
wide,  frightened  eyes. 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,  you  can  not  mean  it  —  that 
he  shall  die  —  Morris  die !  " 

The  old  man  looked  down  into  the  pale  face,  the 
searching,  pitiful  eyes;  but  there  shone  no  mercy  in 
the  hard  eyes  that  met  the  ones  raised  pleadingly 
to  his. 

"  Yes,  and  you,  the  only  child  of  the  man  he  killed, 
shall  fulfill  the  sacred  oath,  and  bring  peace  to  your 
father's  honorable  soul." 

Yuki  was  utterly  bewildered  and  said  falteringly: 
"  I  do  not  understand  —  I  do  not  understand." 

With  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  fatalist  the  uncle 
continued : 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  a  man-child  had  been 
born  to  our  lord,  as  his  arm  would  not  falter;  but 
you  will  take  as  sure  a  way,  if  not  as  honorable  as 
the  sword.  Here  is  the  means."  He  drew  a  little 
bottle  from  the  sleeve  of  his  kimono.  "  A  little  of 
this  and  he  sleeps  instantly  and  well." 

Yuki  held  out  her  hands  to  the  man  sitting  like 
fate  before  her. 

"  My  lord,  how  can  I  ?  We  have  been  so  happy ! 
My  Dana  San  has  never  given  me  an  unkind  look, 
never  caused  me  a  moment's  sorrow.  I  love  him. 
Uncle,  not  as  a  Japanese  woman  loves  her  lord,  but  as 


The  Call  of  the  Race 

a  foreign  woman  from  over  the  seas  loves  the  man 
whom  she  has  chosen  from  all  the  world.  For  two 
years  we  have  been  in  this  little  house,  for  two  years 
he  has  been  my  every  breath.  My  first  thought  in  the 
morning  was  for  Morris,  my  Dana  San,  my  last 
thought  at  night  was  joy  in  the  thought  that  I  was 
his  and  that  he  loved  me.  Sometimes  I  waken  and 
look  at  him,  and  wonder  how  such  a  great  man  can 
care  for  such  a  simple  Japanese  girl  as  I  am.  And 
now  you  ask  me  to  hurt  him  ?  "  She  drew  her  head 
up  proudly.  "  I  can  not  and  I  will  not.  He  is  my 
husband,  and  no  matter  what  he  has  done  I  will 
protect  him  —  even  from  you/' 

The  man  rose,  and  striding  to  her,  grasped  her 
roughly  by  the  arm. 

"  Woman,  you  will  do  as  we  say.  You  are  a 
Japanese  and  you  know  even  unto  death  you  must 
obey.  I  have  no  fear.  It  will  be  done  —  and  by 
you  —  to-night." 

He  released  her  arm,  and  she,  looking  down  upon 
the  tatami,  moved  her  foot  silently  to  and  fro, 
absorbed  with  this  tragedy  that  had  come  into  her 
happy  life.  Then  she  had  a  thought  that  brought 
hope  to  her,  and  she  looked  up  eagerly.  "  Perhaps 
it  is  not  true  —  perhaps  it  was  not  really  Morris  —  " 

"  Listen,"  said  the  man  roughly.  "  It  was  he.  We 
know.  But  you  —  if  you  do  not  believe  —  make  him 
confess  to-night.  If  it  was  not  he,  then  you  are  free. 


Elizabeth  Cooper  273 

If  it  is,  you  will  know  what  to  do  —  and  it  will  be 
done  to-night  —  remember." 

Yuki  looked  into  the  hard  black  eyes  staring  at 
her,  fascinating  her,  taking  all  the  life  from  her,  and 
she  said  slowly  as  if  under  a  spell: 

"Yes  —  if  he  confesses  —  if  it  was  he  —  I  know 
it  will  be  done.  But  —  if  the  gods  take  him,  they 
will  also  take  me." 

The  uncle  shook  her  roughly  by  the  arm. 

"No!  Listen  to  me.  Your  work  is  not  yet  done. 
You  must  live.  It  would  be  too  much  happiness  to 
have  your  spirit  travel  with  him  the  lonely  road. 
He  must  walk  the  path  alone,  without  love  to  guide 
him.  You  will  return  to  me  to-night,  return  to  your 
home  and  family  who  await  you.  Our  vengeance 
would  be  only  half  complete  if  we  allowed  you  to 
journey  to  the  Land  of  Shadows  with  him.  Come 
to  me  —  "  and  he  drew  her  to  him.  "  Look  at  me. 
I  will  await  you  at  the  Willow  Tea  House." 

He  took  her  face  in  his  hands  and  gazed  steadily 
into  her  eyes,  saying  in  a  low,  tense  voice : 

"  I  do  not  fear  —  you  will  obey.  Are  you  not  a 
Japanese?  I  expect  —  you  —  to  —  come  —  to  —  me 
—  after  your  work  is  done  —  and  the  gods  will  be 
with  you.  Sayonara." 

He  put  on  his  clogs  at  the  entrance  and  went  away, 
his  form  scarcely  distinguishable  in  the  gloom  as  he 
went  down  the  pathway.  Yuki  looked  after  him. 


274  The  Call  of  the  Race 

then  threw  herself  on  her  face  on  the  floor  with  a 
little  moan,  beating  her  hands  in  the  manner  of  an 
Eastern  woman. 

It  was  absolutely  quiet  in  the  room,  no  noise 
coming  from  the  street  outside,  except  from  a  far 
distance  a  woman's  voice  chanting  in  a  tone  of  singu 
lar  sweetness  words  that  sounded  in  their  minor  key 
like  the  soft  tones  of  a  flute:  " Amma  Konitchi 
Wahyak  Mo"  then  between  these  sweet  calls  a 
plaintive  whistle  —  one  long-drawn  note,  then  two 
shorter  ones  —  the  cry  of  the  blind  massage  woman, 
making  her  rounds  for  her  evening's  toil. 

The  cry  died  away,  and  only  the  low  moan  was 
heard  within  the  little  room.  Morris  opened  the  gate 
and  came  lightly  up  the  pathway,  whistling  a  few  bars 
of  the  latest  popular  song.  He  came  inside  the  room, 
and,  hardly  able  to  distinguish  the  objects,  looked 
about  wonderingly,  then  seeing  Yuki  lying  where 
she  had  thrown  herself,  he  went  over  to  her  and 
picked  her  up. 

"  My  sweetheart,  what  is  it  ?  What  has  hap 
pened  ?  "  He  sat  down  upon  the  long  chair  and  held 
her  against  him.  "  Tell  me,  dear  one,  tell  me." 

Morris  went  over  to  the  lamp  after  a  few  moments 
and  lighted  it,  then  came  back  and  showed  Yuki  a 
little  gift  he  had  brought  her.  She  took  it  and  looked 
at  it  with  eyes  filled  with  tragic  grief;  then,  pressing 
it  against  her  face,  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 


Elizabeth  Cooper  275 

began  sobbing  in  a  heart-broken  way  that  amazed 
Morris. 

She  lay  with  her  face  hidden,  he  softly  caressing 
her  hair.  Finally  she  said: 

"  Morris,  we  have  been  here  two  years.     Tell  me 

—  have  I  made  you  happy?" 

Morris  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  happily. 

"Happy,  Yuki,  happy?  Dear  heart,  I  had  a  long 
time  ago  put  aside  the  thought  that  love  meant  happi 
ness  and  happiness  meant  love.  Now  you  have 
taught  me  that  one  cannot  exist  without  the  other. 
I  love  you,  I  live  with  you,  you  are  mine.  That  tells 
everything.  When  you  came  into  my  life,  into  my 
heart,  I  was  soured  and  embittered.  Life  meant  only 
work  and  duties  done ;  after  that,  comforf  and  a  cigar 

—  that  was  all.     But  now,  I  love  my  work  as  well, 
I  do  it  as  thoroughly,  but  there  is  something  more. 
I  know  when  I  shut  the  office-door,  I  can  come  here 
where  no  one  can  enter.     I  can  be  alone  with  the 
woman  I  love  and  who  loves  me.     There  is  no  ques 
tion  of  society  or  dinners,  but  just  us  two  alone,  you 
and  me  —  and,"  turning  up  her  face,  "  you  are  happy 
with  me,  my  Yuki  San?    You  love  me?  " 

Yuki  did  not  reply  at  once.  Then  in  a  low,  sweet 
voice  she  replied: 

"  Morris,  we  Japanese  women  never  speak  of  love. 
It  is  to  us  a  subject  left  to  singing  girls  and  geishas. 
Without  it  we  marry,  and  without  it  we  live,  and  it 


276  The  Call  of  the  Race 

is,  unless  by  chance,  a  closed  book  to  us.  I  do  not 
know  if  I  love  you  as  the  women  of  your  race  love 
their  Dana  Sans  —  I  know  I  think  of  you  by  day, 
and  I  dream  of  you  by  night.  I  live  only  for  you  — • 
to  be  what  you  wish  me  to  be  —  and  when  you  take 
me  in  your  arms  and  say,  '  My  Yuki  San,  my  sweet 
heart,'  it  seems  to  me  that  my  heart  with  its  happi 
ness  will  break !  I  do  not  know  if  that  is  love  —  but 
if  it  be  —  I  love  you,  my  Dana  San,  I  love  you." 

She  lay  quietly,  and  he  rested  his  face  against  her 
hair,  caressing  it  from  time  to  time.  After  a  silence, 
he  inquired  lightly: 

"What  about  supper,  Yuki?" 

Yuki  drew  him  to  her  again,  for  he  moved  as  if 
he  would  rise. 

"Wait,  dear,  let  us  talk  a  little.  Tell  me,  when 
you  to  Tokio  came  —  the  first  time  —  " 

"  Twelve  years  ago,  when  O  Yuki  San  was  a 
little  girl." 

"  Twelve  years  ago  —  there  was  much  trouble  then 
between  foreigners  and  Japanese.  You  and  your 
friends  —  had  —  had  trouble." 

Morris  looked  at  her  quickly  and  his  eyes  darkened. 

"  Where  did  you  hear  that?  "  he  asked. 

Yuki,  carelessly :  "  Oh,  they  gossip  in  the  market 
place." 

Morris  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  have  heard,  but  I  might 


Elizabeth  Cooper  277 

as  well  tell  you  the  whole  story.  I  did  have  trouble 
here  in  Japan.  One  night  some  of  us  got  in  a 
mix-up  —  a  sort  of  quarrel  with  a  Japanese,  and  I 
don't  know  how  it  happened  —  I  never  have  known 
—  but  I  struck  and  killed  him.  It  was  in  the  dark, 
and  I  could  hardly  see  him." 

After  a  silence  Yuki  stammered :  "  You  —  killed 
him?" 

"  In  self-defense,  O  Yuki  San,"  Morris  defended 
eagerly;  "it  was  in  self-defense.  But  afterwards, 
what  a  time  it  was!  Shall  I  ever  forget  that  night 
getting  back  to  my  ship?  "  He  passed  his  hand  over 
his  face,  and  then  came  back  to  his  place  beside  her 
on  the  couch.  "  Don't  speak  of  it  any  more ;  I  don't 
want  to  think  of  it." 

Yuki  slipped  down  to  the  floor  and  sat  there  with 
her  head  against  his  knee.  She  sat  very  quietly,  then 
finally  put  her  hand  up  to  the  flower  in  her  dress 
and  slowly  took  it  out  and  let  it  fall  to  the  floor, 
petal  by  petal,  watching  the  leaves  as  they  fell.  Then, 
after  a  long  silence,  she  rose  and  started  towards  the 
tea  table,  hesitated,  went  a  little  way,  and  then  came 
back  to  him.  She  knelt  by  the  couch  and  said,  in 
a  low  voice: 

"  Morris,  no  matter  what  happens,  what  you  learn, 
what  the  gods  may  teach  you  soon  —  remember,  I 
love  you  with  all  the  love  of  my  life.  That  I  would 
give  that  life  for  you  —  oh,  so  willingly,  if  I  only 


278  The  Call  of  the  Race 

could!  That  through  whatever  you  pass,  I  would 
gladly  be  with  you;  but  I  will  come  to  you  soon. 
I  will  not  send  you  where  I  may  not  follow.  I  will 
come.  I  am  yours,  and  the  gods  cannot  let  you  go 
alone.  You  need  me,  and  I  would  not  be  afraid. 
I  love  you  —  I  want  to  go  with  you  —  but  I  am  a 
Japanese  —  and  I  understand." 

She  let  her  face  fall  upon  her  t  hands  and  knelt 
there  quietly.  Morris  looked  at  her  blankly,  thinking 
she  was  worried  about  something.  Finally  he  lifted 
her  face  and  kissed  her. 

"  Never  mind,  dear  one.  I  don't  know  what  is 
troubling  you,  but  of  course  you  shall  go  with  me 
wherever  I  go.  I  need  you,  and  could  not  be  without 
my  Yuki  San." 

He  started  to  read  the  papers;  she  rose  and  stood 
by  the  couch  a  moment,  then  taking  a  step  toward 
the  tea-things : 

"Would  my  Dana  San  —  like  —  a  cup  of  tea?" 

Morris,  absorbed  in  his  papers,  assented.  "  Why, 
yes,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do." 

She  turned  and  walked  slowly  to  the  hibachi,  knelt 
beside  it,  fanned  the  fire  a  moment,  then  poured  the 
water  from  the  iron  kettle  into  the  tiny  teapot,  let 
it  stand  a  moment,  looking  over  towards  Morris. 
Then  she  took  the  bottle  from  her  sleeve  and  poured 
a  few  drops  into  the  cup,  filling  it  with  tea.  She 
rose  slowly  and  walked  over  to  the  long  chair.  She 


Elizabeth  Cooper  279 

looked  down  at  him  as  he  lay  half-reclining,  hesitated, 
then  handed  him  the  cup.  He  took  it,  and  looking 
up  at  her  half  laughing,  exclaimed: 

"  To  you,  sweetheart !  "  and  drank. 

He  fell  back  on  the  chair;  the  cup  dropped  from 
his  hands.  Yuki  looked  down  at  him  in  silence;  then 
she  bent  over  him,  and  lovingly  crossed  his  hands 
upon  his  breast,  touched  his  face  caressingly  with  her 
fingers ;  then  bent  down  and  kissed  him. 

She  turned  slowly,  and,  in  turning,  her  eyes  fell 
upon  the  shrine.  She  looked  at  it  intently,  slowly 
crossed  the  room  and  knelt  in  front  of  it,  bowed  her 
head  to  the  floor;  then  opened  the  doors,  and  bowed 
her  head  again. 

She  took  out  two  candlesticks,  two  little  jars  of 
incense,  a  small  bowl  for  rice,  and  another  for  water. 
She  lighted  the  candles,  lighted  the  incense,  poured 
water  in  one  bowl  and  rice  in  the  other.  Then  she 
again  touched  her  head  to  the  floor,  once  —  twice  — 
thrice  —  rose,  and  walked  backward  to  the  open 
shojii. 

She  stood  a  moment  looking  around  the  room  that 
she  had  loved  so  well;  then  turned  her  face  to  her 
lover  lying  so  quietly  in  the  chair.  She  knelt  down 
facing  him,  touched  her  head  to  the  floor  and  rising 
in  the  kneeling  position,  said,  stretching  out  her  arms 
towards  Morris: 

"Sayonara,  my  Dana  San,  good-bye,  good-bye." 


One  Wreath  of  Rue 

By  Cynthia  West  over  Alden 

The  brawny  lad  in  khaki  clad, 

We  rightly  cheer.     Alas, 
My  eyes  grow  dim!     I  weigh  with  him, 
The  boy 

Who  failed 
To  pass. 

A  heart  more  brave  no  man  could  have, 

His  soul  as  clear  as  glass. 
He  faced  with  zest  the  doctor-test  — 
The  boy 

Who  failed 
To  pass. 

And  now  the  blow  is  hurting  so, 

He  sees  the  legions  mass. 
They  go  to  war.     Be  sorry  for 
The  boy 

Who  failed 
To  pass. 

280 


Cynthia  Westover  Alden          281 

The  future  grim  is  flouting  him 

As  in  the  weakling  class. 
Though  fine  and  true,  his  years  are  few  — 
The  boy 

Who  failed 
To  pass. 

For  warriors  proud  blow  bugles  loud, 

Of  silver  or  of  brass; 
One  wreath  of  rue  is  due  unto 
The  boy 

Who  failed 
To  pass. 


Woodrow  Wilson  and  Wells, 
War's  Great  Authors 

An  Interview  with  Honore  Willsie 

"  The  war  has  thus  far  produced  two  great  pieces 
of  literature.  One  of  these  is  H.  G.  Wells'  'Mr. 
Britling  Sees  It  Through.'  The  other  is  President 
Wilson's  War  Message.  I  was  curiously  moved  by 
'  Mr.  Britling  Sees  It  Through.'  The  effect  of  that 
novel  on  me  was  to  move  me  away  from  the  war,  to 
let  me  get  a  picture  of  the  war  as  a  great  procession 
against  the  horizon. 

"  Every  code  that  I  had  —  in  government,  in  re 
ligion,  in  ethics  —  had  been  obliterated  by  the  events 
of  the  last  three  years.  But  this  novel  showed  me 
that  there  could  be  a  code  —  that  something  coherent 
and  true  must  come  out  of  the  chaos.  Reading  as 
many  manuscripts  as  I  do,  I  grow  stale  on  ideas.  I 
want  to  read  out-and-out  trash  or  else  something  that 
will  give  me  a  new  philosophy  of  life.  And  Wells,  at 
any  rate,  showed  me  that  there  could  be  a  new 
philosophy. 

"  The  great  task  before  our  writers  to-day  is  to 

282 


Honore  Willsie  283 

do  for  the  individual  what  President  Wilson's 
Declaration  of  War  did  for  the  nations  of  the  world. 
This  is  the  most  important  thing  a  writer  can  do  — 
to  make  a  new  code  for  mankind.  I  can't  think  of 
any  American  writer  able  to  do  it.  But  did  any  of  us 
expect  Wells  to  write  such  a  book  as  '  Mr.  Britling 
Sees  It  Through  '  ? 

"  One  significant  thing  about  President  Wilson's 
message  is  that  its  author  is  absolutely  sure  of  the 
hereafter.  He  is  convinced  that  God  is  Eternal 
Goodness.  All  his  utterances  are  the  utterances  of  a 
man  with  a  deep  faith  that  never  has  been  disturbed. 
And  that  sort  of  man  is  essentially  the  man  for 
statesmanship. 

"  Religious  fervor  was  the  driving  force  of  the 
fathers  of  our  country.  For  an  agnostic  like  myself 
to  witness  an  exhibition  of  this  force  is  to  look  wist 
fully  at  a  power  that  cannot  be  understood.  It  is  the 
spirit  of  the  little  red  schoolhouse,  of  the  meeting 
house,  of  the  town  meeting  —  the  spirit  of  American 
statesmanship  and  of  American  democracy. 

"  Human  beings  aren't  big  enough  to  get  along 
without  religion.  Somehow  or  other  we  moderns 
have  got  to  have  some  faith  —  as  Lincoln  had  it,  and 
Adams,  and  Washington  —  as  Wilson  has  it.  We 
need  a  new  religion.  For  Wilson  won't  happen  again 
very  often. 

"  President   Wilson's    message    formulates   a   new 


284       Woodrow  Wilson  and  Wells 

philosophy  of  government.  His  message  came  on 
Europe  like  a  flash  of  light  in  the  darkness  of  battle. 

"  President  Wilson  seems  to  have  started  his  mes 
sage  with  a  definite  conviction  as  to  the  existence  of 
God.  Mr.  Wells  must  have  started  his  novel  with  the 
hope  of  finding  God  through  it.  I  size  Wells  up  as  a 
modern  with  the  modern  craving  for  God.  Wells 
does  not  lead  you  to  God,  but  he  gives  you  the  idea 
that  God  exists,  and  is  just  over  beyond. 

"  But  then  religion  is  a  favorite  theme  of  the 
novelist.  Winston  Churchill's  '  The  Inside  of  the 
Cup '  indicated  that  social  service  would  take  the 
place  of  religion.  Well,  maybe  it  would  for  some 
people.  But  nowadays  most  people  need  a  religion 
that  says  that  there  is  a  hereafter. 

"  I  think  that  I  am  the  only  human  being  in  cap 
tivity  who  has  read  all  of  Holt's  book  on  the  cosmic 
relations.  And  what  I  got  out  of  it  was  not  a  belief 
in  spiritualism,  but  a  realization  of  the  fact  that  every 
one,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  educated  and 
illiterate,  has  a  craving  for  knowledge  of  life  after 
death,  has  a  craving  for  belief  in  life  after  death. 
And  the  war  has  raised  this  feeling  to  the  nth  power. 
We  feel  that  we  shall  go  mad  if  there  is  no  hereafter. 
Mr.  Wells  leads  us  to  believe  that  he  will  find  that 
there  is  a  hereafter.  President  Wilson  shows  us  that 
he  is  sure  there  is  one. 

"  This    craving    for    conviction    of    the    hereafter, 


Honore  Willsie  285 

increased  by  the  war,  inevitably  makes  our  literature 
more  spiritual.  So  we  are  seeing  the  last  for  awhile 
of  the  sex  novel  and  of  sordid  realism.  We  no  longer 
find  people  who  believe  that  since  you  are  an  artist 
you  should  describe  the  contents  of  a  garbage  can. 
The  soul  of  man  as  well  as  the  body  of  man  is 
coming  into  its  own  as  the  theme  of  the  novelist. 

"  And  the  war  is  responsible.  You  can't  stick  out 
your  tongue  and  make  a  face  at  God  when  a  shell 
may  momentarily  hurl  you  from  the  earth.  And  who 
cares  to  read  a  sex  novel  now?  What  do  the  little 
bedroom  scandals  of  the  flimsy  novels  matter  when 
the  womanhood  of  Belgium  has  been  despoiled? 

"  I  am  asked  if  our  writers  have  deteriorated  of 
late  years.  I  think  that  the  rank  and  file  of  our  serial 
writers  are  way  below  those  of  forty  or  fifty  years 
ago.  Then  our  novelists  were  fewer  and  better. 
Look  at  the  files  of  the  old  magazines  and  you  will 
find  that  the  novels  that  appeared  serially  in  those 
days  were  much  better  than  those  that  are  appearing 
to-day.  But  one  or  two  of  our  best  novelists  are  just 
as  fine  as  any  of  our  writers  of  a  bygone  genera 
tion  —  Margaret  Deland  and  Gertrude  Atherton,  for 
instance. 

"  And  in  other  branches  of  literature  I  think  we 
have  improved  on  our  forefathers.  American  poets 
have  never  before  done  such  exquisite  things  as  they 
are  doing  to-day,  and  one  or  two  short  story  writers 


286      Woodrow  Wilson  and  Wells 

are  doing  better  things  than  were  ever  done  before  in 
this  country.  If  you  compare  the  short  stories  in  old 
issues  of  the  magazines  with  those  in  the  current 
issues  you  will  find  that  the  old  short  stories 
are  as  much  inferior  to  the  new  short  stories  as  the 
old  novels  —  the  serialized  novels  —  are  superior  to 
the  new  ones." 


A  Field 

By  Minnie  Stickier 

Sometime  I  expect  to  turn  a  sharp  corner  and 
come  face  to  face  with  myself,  according  to  the 
ancient  maxim,  "  extremes  meet."  For,  did  I  not 
vow  to  the  Four  Great  Walls  that  had  imprisoned 
me  for  nine  months,  that  I  would  fly  to  the  utter 
most  parts  of  the  earth  so  soon  as  vacation  should 
open  the  doors?  And  did  I  not  spend  almost  my 
entire  summer  within  sight  of  my  home,  and  in  a 
field  of  a  few  acres  dimension? 

I  caught  sight  of  some  flowers,  just  inside  the 
barbed  wire  fencing  the  track,  that  were  fairer  than 
any  I  had  yet  gathered  for  my  vases.  As  the  old 
song  has  it,  "  O,  brighter  the  flowers  on  the  other 
side  seem !  "  No  one  saw  me  get  under  that  six- 
stranded  barbed- wire  fence,  and  I  am  not  going  to 
tell  how  I  did  it.  But  when  I  got  through  I  felt 
as  well  guarded  as  though  attended  by  a  retinue  of 
soldiers.  And  I  found  myself  in  another  world  — 
a  dream-world! 

It  was  a  large  field  rosy  with  red  clover  and  waving 
with  tall  timothy.  A  single  tree  glistened  and  rustled 

287 


288  A  Field 

invitingly.  In  its  shade  I  rested,  refreshing  myself 
with  the  field  sights  and  sounds  and  fragrances.  It 
was  delightful  to  be  the  center  of  so  much  beauty 
as  circled  round  about  me.  Then  I  had  only  to  rest 
on  the  rosy  clover-carpet  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and 
the  tall  grass  eclipsed  all  things  earthly  save  the  tree, 
and  the  sky  overhead,  and  the  round  mat  of  clover 
under  the  tree  which  the  grass  ringed  about.  I  had 
often  wished  for  Siegfried's  magic  cloak.  Well,  here 
was  something  quite  as  good,  which,  if  it  did  not 
render  me  invisible  to  the  world,  made  the  world 
invisible  to  me.  Who  of  you  would  not  be  glad  to 
have  the  old  world  with  its  "  everyday  endeavors  and 
desires,"  its  folly,  its  pride  and  its  tears,  drop  out 
of  sight  for  a  while,  leaving  you  in  a  flowery  zone 
of  perfect  quiet  and  beauty,  hedged  in  by  a  wall 
of  grass! 

There  were  many  "  afterwards/'  And  the  marvel 
of  it  all  was  that,  for  all  I  could  do,  the  field  retained 
its  virgin  splendor  and  kept  the  secret  of  my  goings- 
in  and  comings-out  most  completely. 

After  the  daisies,  there  came  a  season  of  black- 
eyed  Susans.  That  was  when  the  grasses  were  tallest 
and  the  feeling  of  mystery  did  most  abound.  I  know 
I  had  been  there  many  days  before  I  discovered  the 
myriads  of  wild  roses  near  the  crabtree  thicket  — 
those  fairies'  flowers  so  exquisite  in  their  pink  frailty 
that  mortal  breath  is  rude.  Only  when  I  reached 


Minnie  Stichter  289 

the  hedge,  bounding  the  remote  side  of  the  field,  did 
I  enter  into  my  full  inheritance.  Along  a  barbed- 
wire  fence  had  grown  up  sumac,  elderberry,  crab- 
trees  and  nameless  brambles,  while  over  all  trailed 
the  wild  grapevine,  bearing  the  most  perfect  miniature 
clusters,  fit  to  be  sculptured  by  Trentanove  into 
immortal  beauty.  And  this  hedge  was  the  source 
of  ever  increasing  wonder  the  whole  summer  long. 
I  depended  on  it  alone  for  sensational  denouements 
after  the  grass  was  cut  for  hay.  When  the  field 
lay  shorn,  like  other  fields  about  it  far  and  wide,  I 
could  not  have  been  lured  hitherward  but  for  the 
hedge.  There  the  hard  green  berries  of  a  peculiar 
bramble  ripened  into  wax-white  pellet-sized  drops 
clustered  together  on  a  woody  stem  by  the  most 
coral-pink  pedicles  ever  designed  by  sea-sprites. 

In  its  time  came  the  elderberry  bloom,  and  its 
purple  fruit;  the  garnet  fruit  of  the  sumach  and  its 
flaming  foliage;  the  lengths  of  vines  and  their  purple 
clusters  —  all  these  and  more  also  ministered  to  my 
delight. 

About  goldenrod  time,  the  school-bell  rang  me  in 
from  the  field,  but  I  managed  to  take  recesses  long 
enough  to  behold  the  kaleidoscopic  views  brought 
before  me  by  the  turning  of  nature's  hand.  The 
smooth  velvety  green  of  the  field  with  its  border  of 
gold  and  lavender  —  great  widths  of  thistle  and 
goldenrod  following  the  line  of  fence  —  was  like  the 


290  A  Field 

broidered  mantle  of  some  celestial  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
spread  for  the  queens  of  earth.  I  was  no  queen;  but 
I  did  not  envy  royalty,  since  I  doubted  if  it  had  any 
such  cherished  possessions  as  my  field  in  its  various 
phases. 

In  the  November  days,  the  brightness  of  the  fields 
seemed  to  be  inverted  and  to  be  seen  in  the  opalescent 
tints  of  the  sky.  Then,  the  clearness  of  the  atmos 
phere,  the  wider  horizon,  the  less  hidden  homes  and 
doings  of  men,  had  this  message  for  the  children  of 
men:  "If  there  is  any  secret  in  your  life,  leave  it 
out." 

When  it  is  December  and  the  fields  are  too  snowy 
and  wind-swept  for  pleasure-grounds,  where  the  only 
bits  of  brightness  are  the  embroideries  of  the  scarlet 
pips  of  the  wild-rose,  it  is  good  to  nestle  by  the  cozy 
fireside  and  conjure  it  all  up  again,  and  nourish  a 
feeling  of  expectancy  for  the  spring  and  summer  that 
shall  come.  Again,  the  flowers  and  waving  grass  and 
drowsy  warmth  of  the  summer  day ;  again,  the  songs 
of  flitting  birds,  the  scented  sweets  of  the  new-mown 
hay.  Again  the  work  of  the  fields  goes  on  before 
me  like  a  play  in  pantomime!  Again,  with  my  eyes, 
I  follow  home  the  boys  with  their  cows,  to  the  purple 
rim  of  the  hill  beyond  which  only  my  fancy  has  ever 
gone.  Again  I  quit  work  with  the  tired  laborer. 
Again  I  dream  of  the  open,  free,  unfettered  song  that 
life  might  be  if  it  were  lived  more  simply,  with  less 


Minnie  Stichter  291 

of  artificiality.  And  again,  for  the  sake  of  one 
patient  toiler  in  the  town,  whose  life-task  admits  of 
no  holiday,  I  have  the  grace  to  return  thither  and 
begin  where  I  left  off  —  the  life  common  to  you  and 
to  me,  the  life  ordained  for  us  from  the  beginning. 


Your  Lad,  and  My  Lad 

By  Randall  Parrish 

Down  toward  the  deep  blue  water,  marching  to  the 

throb  of  drum, 
From  city  street  and  country  lane  the  lines  of  khaki 

come; 
The  rumbling  guns,  the  sturdy  tread,  are  full  of  grim 

appeal, 
While    rays    of    western    sunshine   flash   back    from 

burnished  steel. 
With  eager  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame  the  serried  ranks 

advance ; 
And  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  are  on  their  way 

to  France. 

A  sob  clings  choking  in  the  throat,  as  file  on  file 

sweep  by, 
Between    those    cheering    multitudes,    to    where    the 

great  ships  lie; 
The  batteries  halt,  the  columns  wheel,  to  clear-toned 

bugle  call, 
With  shoulders  squared  and  faces  front  they  stand 

a  khaki  wall. 

292 


Randall  Parrish  293 

Tears  shine  on  every  watcher's  cheek,  love  speaks  in 

every  glance; 
For  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  are  on  their  way 

to  France. 

Before  them,  through  a  mist  of  years,  in  soldier  buff 
or  blue, 

Brave  comrades  from  a  thousand  fields  watch  now 
in  proud  review; 

The  same  old  Flag,  the  same  old  Faith  —  the  Free 
dom  of  the  World  — 

Spells  Duty  in  those  flapping  folds  above  long  ranks 
unfurled. 

Strong  are  the  hearts  which  bear  along  Democracy's 
advance, 

As  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  go  on  their  way 
to  France. 


Peace  and  Then — ? 

By  Detlev  Fredrik  Tillisch 

Suburb  of  London.     Three  months  after  declaration 
of  peace.     Time:    Noon. 

CAST 
Mrs.    Claire   Hamilton  —  about   35   years   of   age  — 

portly  —  simply  dressed. 

Master  Hal   Hamilton  —  her  son  —  about    10  years 
of    age  —  full    of    life  —  dressed    in    Boy    Scout 
uniform. 
Mr.  John  Hamilton  —  soldier  —  botanist  —  about  39 

years  of  age  —  tall  —  well  built. 
Sergeant,  soldiers  and  pedestrians. 

Claire  Hamilton  is  seen  fixing  her  corner 
flower  stand  and  endeavoring  to  sell  her 
plants  to  passers-by,  but  after  three  futile 
attempts  she  becomes  tired  of  standing  and 
takes  seat  on  wooden  bench  in  front  of  her 
stand.  Takes  letter  from  pocket  —  sighs  and 
begins  to  read  letter  aloud. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  (reading).  "  Dearest  Love  and  Hal 
Boy  —  We  are  still  in  the  bowels  of  hell  —  but 
even  this  would  be  nothing  if  I  but  knew  my  loved 
ones  were  well  and  happy.  (She  wipes  away  a  tear 

294 


Detlev  Fredrik  Tillisch  295 

and  continues  reading.)  Nothing  but  a  miracle  can 
end  this  terrible  war.  Give  my  own  dear  Hallie 
boy  a  kiss  from  his  longing  papa."  (She  lays 
letter  on  her  lap  and  meditates.)  Peace  (shakes  her 
head  —  looks  at  date  of  letter.)  February  i6th  — 
six  months  past  and  now  it's  all  over  —  three 
months  ago  —  Oh,  God,  bring  him  back  to  me 
and  my  boy.  (She  goes  back  of  flower  stand  and 
brings  out  box  of  mignonettes.  Hal  comes  running 
in  with  bundle  of  newspapers  and  very  much 
excited  —  his  sleeve  is  torn.  He  stands  still  and 
looks  at  mother  rather  proudly  and  defiantly.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton.     Hal  Boy  —  what's  the  trouble? 

Hal.     I  licked  Fritz. 

Mrs.  Hamilton.     What  for? 

Hal.  He  said  it  took  the  whole  world  to  lick  the 
Germans. 

Mrs.  Hamilton.  But,  Hal,  my  boy  —  the  war  is 
over  —  you  mustn't  be  hateful  —  be  kind  and  for 
giving. 

Hal.     Make  them  bring  back  my  daddy  then. 

Mrs.  Hamilton.  You  still  have  your  mother  — 
(Hal  runs  to  mother  and  embraces  her  tenderly.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton.  Whose  birthday  is  it  to-day?  (He 
thinks  —  pause.)  This  is  the  2Oth  of  August  — 
now  think  hard.  (She  awaits  answer  —  silence  — 
then  takes  box  of  mignonettes.)  Whose  favorite 
flower  is  the  mignonette? 


296  Peace  and  Then? 

Hal.     Papa's!     Papa's!     (Claps  his  hands  boyishly.) 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     Yes,  Hal  —  it's  papa's  birthday  and 

mother  is  remembering  the  day  by  decorating  our 

little  stand  with  the  flowers  your  papa  has  grown. 

(He  caresses  the  mignonettes  tenderly.) 
Hal.     Dear     daddy  —  dear     flowers  —  aren't     they 

lovely,  mother? 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     Yes,  Hal.  (She  wipes  away  a  tear, 

trying  to  conceal  her  emotions  from  her  son.) 
Hal.     Maybe  some  day  I'll  be  a  famous  botanist  like 

papa  and  then  you'll  have  two  boxes.     (Mother  is 

silent  trying  to  keep  back  the  tears  and  Hal  notices 

it.)     Papa  is  coming  home  soon,  isn't  he,  mother? 

(She  just  shakes  her  head.) 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     We  must  be  brave. 
Hal.     When  I  get  big  I'm  going  to  be  a  soldier  and 

be  brave  like  daddy. 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     That  won't  be  necessary  any  more 

—  it  isn't  the  people  who  want  to  fight. 
Hal.     But  daddy  did  and  you  bet  if  anybody  makes 

me  sore  I'll  fight  too. 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     No,  my  boy  —  daddy  didn't  want 

to  fight  — 

Hal.     Then  why  did  he  go? 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     Hal,  you're  a  little  boy  and  wouldn't 

understand  —  but  just  remember  what  your  mother 

tells  you:     Don't  be  selfish  —  be  tolerant,  honest 
and  charitable  to  all  the  peoples  of  the  world,  the 


Detlev  Fredrik  Tillisch  297 

big  and  the   small  alike.      (Enter  passer-by  who 

stops  to  look  over  plants.     After  Mrs.  Hamilton 

has  shown  several  and  given  him  prices,  he  picks 

up  the  box  of  mignonettes.) 
Man.     I'll  take  this  box. 
Mrs.  Hamilton  (confused,  not  knowing  whether  to 

tell  stranger  about  that  particular  box  of  flowers 

or  sell  it,  as  she  sorely  needs  money.     Then  she 

picks  up  another  plant  to  show  it.)     Here's  a  very 

sturdy  plant,  sir. 
Man.     But  I  want  this  one.      (Pointing  to  box  of 

mignonettes.)     How  much  is  it?     I'm  in  a  hurry. 
Hal  (goes  to  stranger  and  takes  box  from  his  hands). 

You  can't  have  them  —  they're  daddy's. 
Man   (pushing  him  to   one  side).     Get  away   from 

here,  you  little  ruffian. 
Mrs.    Hamilton.     That's   my   son,    sir  —  he's   not   a 

ruffian.      His    father   has   not    returned    from   the 

front  and  that  — 
Man  (interrupting).     Oh,  yes  —  yes  —  we  hear  those 

stories  every  day  now  on  every  corner  —  it's  the 

beggar's  capital.      (He  walks  away  hurriedly,  but 

Hal  starts  after  with  clenched  fist. 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     Hal!     Hal!     What  did  mother  tell 

you  a  few  moments  ago? 
Hal  (coming  back).     But  he  made  me  sore. 
Mrs.  Hamilton.     What's  the  news —     (Hal  hands 

her  a  paper,  kisses  her  and  starts  up  street.) 


298  Peace  and  Then? 

Hal.     Paper  —  extra  —  paper!     (He  disappears.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton  (is  attracted  by  headlines  in  paper  and 
begins  to  read  aloud).  "  Fifty  men  return  to-day 
from  the  front  to  be  placed  in  the  asylum."  (She 
buries  her  face  in  her  hands.)  Better  that  he  were 
dead.  (Sound  of  footsteps  is  heard.  Enter  detach 
ment  of  ten  men  in  uniform  in  charge  of  a  ser 
geant.  They  swing  corner  of  flower  stand  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton  watches  every  man  and  there  is  a 
tense  silence.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Hamilton  rushes 
toward  them.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton.  John!  John!  My  boy!  (They 
halt.  Mrs.  Hamilton  swoons.  Sergeant  goes  to 
her  and  assists  her  to  bench  in  front  of  stand.  She 
becomes  calm  and  goes  toward  husband  with  out 
stretched  arms.)  Don't  you  know  me?  Claire, 
your  wife !  (He  stares  at  her,  but  shows  no  signs 
of  recognition.)  You  remember  Hal  —  Hal,  your 
own  boy  —  our  little  boy  —  John!  (He  just  looks 
at  her  and  smiles  foolishly.  Sergeant  takes  her 
gently  by  the  arm  to  lead  her  awayf  thinking  her 
hysterically  mistaken  as  many  others  have  been.) 

Sergeant.  Are  you  quite  sure,  madam,  that  he  is 
your  husband? 

Mrs.  Hamilton.     Yes  —  John  Hamilton  —  have  you 

no  record  — 

Sergeant.  Not  yet.  But  time  will  clear  away  any 
doubts  — 


Detlev  Fredrik  Tillisch  299 

Mrs.  Hamilton.  Time  —  time!  I've  waited  long 
enough  on  time.  He's  mine  and  I  want  him. 
(Turns  toward  husband.)  You  want  to  stay  here 
with  me  and  our  boy  —  don't  you,  John  ?  (Pause.) 
Sergeant,  let  me  have  him. 

Sergeant  (trying  to  hide  his  emotion).  You're  quite 
sure,  madam —  (Mrs.  Hamilton  nods  and  ser 
geant  takes  John  from  ranks.  John  just  stares. 
Mrs.  Hamilton  leads  him  tenderly  to  seat.  Sergeant 
starts  others  to  march.) 

Sergeant.  I'll  return  for  him  after  delivering  these 
men.  (Mrs.  Hamilton  takes  no  notice  of  his 
remarks  and  they  march  off.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton  (kissing  his  hands  tenderly  and  giving 
him  all  signs  of  love  and  affection).  Doesn't  it 
seem  good  to  be  with  us  again?  (He  smiles  fool 
ishly.)  And  our  boy  Hal  —  He  is  so  large  now  — 
You'll  see  him  soon.  Think  of  it  —  he's  ten  years 
old.  (Hal  enters  and  without  noticing  father 
rushes  toward  his  mother,  holding  a  package  in  his 
hand.  His  father  sees  him  and  notices  his  uniform 

—  rises  quickly  and  rushes  toward  him  but  mother 
grabs  his  arm  and  holds  him  back.     Hal  remains 
standing.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton.     That's  Hal  —  your  own  boy.     Hal 

—  your  son. 

Mr.  Hamilton  (looks  at  Hal  fiercely).  Attention! 
(Hal  looks  perplexed.) 


300  Peace  and  Then? 

Mrs.  Hamilton.  This  is  your  own  papa  —  my  boy. 
(Hal  runs  toward  him  but  stops.) 

Mr.  Hamilton.  Attention!  (His  hands  grab  his 
pocket  for  revolver  but  finds  none.)  You  scullion 
—  this  is  my  girl!  (Turns  and  puts  arms  around 
Mrs.  Hamilton.)  Aren't  you,  Sissy?  (Mrs.  Ham 
ilton  realises  situation  and  plays  her  part  —  leads 
him  to  seat  —  strokes  his  hair  and  caresses  him.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton.    What  have  you,  Hal? 

Hal.  I  sold  all  my  papers  and  brought  you  a  little 
cake  for  daddy's  birthday. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  (smiles  and  shakes  her  head.  She 
takes  box  of  mignonettes  and  shows  them  to  Mr. 
Hamilton.)  You  surely  remember  these  —  your 
own  mignonettes  —  your  prize  ?  ( She  is  silent. 
He  smells  flowers  —  she  anxiously  awaits  any  signs 
of  recognition  —  long  pause  —  a  slight  spark  of 
intelligence  comes  over  him  as  he  fondles  the 
flowers  —  Mrs.  Hamilton  very  tense  but  says  noth 
ing.  Hal  remains  standing  as  if  rooted  to  the 
spot.  Enter  sergeant.) 

Sergeant.  I  must  deliver  him  with  the  others, 
madam.  (No  reply.)  It's  my  duty.  (He  goes  to 
take  Mr.  Hamilton  by  the  arm,  but  Mrs.  Hamilton 
interferes.) 

Mrs.  Hamilton.  Duty!  Duty!  It  has  been  my  duty 
to  slave  and  starve  —  my  husband  has  done  his 
duty  —  he  volunteered  his  services  —  I  willingly  let 


Detlev  Fredrik  Tillisch  301 

him  go —  for  what?  For  whom?  (Pause.)  Now 
it's  all  over.  This  is  the  result  to  me  —  to  thou 
sands,  but  now  —  (stands  between  Mr.  Hamilton 
and  sergeant)  —  God  has  brought  him  back  to  me 
and  God  will  keep  him  with  me! 
Mr.  Hamilton  (in  a  whisper) .  God  —  (rubs  hands 
over  eyes)  —  God  —  (Smells  fragrance  of  the 
mignonettes.  He  takes  Mrs.  Hamilton's  hand  and 
Hal  runs  to  him  and  kneels  beside  him.)  My 
mignonette.  (Smiles  to  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Hal.) 
My  mignonettes. 


Semper  Fidelis 

By  Addie  B.  Billington 

When  free  from  earthly  toil  and  thrall  of  pain, 

Time's  transient  guest, 
One  large  of  heart  and  finely  quick  of  brain 

Found  early  rest. 
Kind  friends  ordained  that  on  his  coffin  lid, 

Bedecked  with  flowers, 
His  last  Romance  should  lie,  forever  hid 

From  sight  of  ours. 
Th'  unfinished  page  no  other  hand  might  press, 

Where  his  had  wrought, 

Nor   Fancy   weave    strange   threads  —  to   match   by 
guess 

The  strands  he  sought. 
The  motives  worthy  and  the  action  grand, 

In  faithful  trust, 
To  bury  what  they  could  not  understand, 

With  fleeting  dust. 
And  if  within  the  years  there  treasured  lies, 

'Neath  Memory's  trance, 
Wreathed  in  forget-me-nots,  my  sacred  prize  — 

A  life's  Romance  — 
302 


Addie  B.  Billington  303 

Heav'n  grant  no  ruthless  hand  the  pages  turn, 

When  I  am  gone, 
Striving  its  inmost  meaning  to  discern; 

Tis  mine  alone. 


Our  Bird  Friends 

By  Margaret  Coulson  Walker 

Lovers  of  birds  will  doubtless  be  pleased  to  know 
that  some  of  the  most  agreeable  and  interesting 
legends  of  the  past  were  centered  about  these  guests 
of  our  groves,  whose  actions  formed  the  basis  of 
innumerable  fancies  and  superstitions.  An  acquaint 
ance  with  the  literature  as  well  as  with  the  life  history 
of  our  feathered  friends  will  not  only  increase  our 
interest  in  the  bird  life  about  us  but  it  will  broaden 
our  sympathies  as  well. 

Birds  exercised  a  strong  influence  on  prehistoric 
religion,  having  been  worshipped  as  gods  in  the 
earlier  days  and  later  looked  upon  as  representatives 
of  the  higher  powers.  The  Greeks  went  so  far  as  to 
attribute  the  origin  of  the  world  itself  to  the  egg  of 
some  mysterious  bird.  To  others,  these  small  crea 
tures  flitting  about  among  our  trees,  represented  the 
visible  spirits  of  departed  friends.  The  Aztecs  be 
lieved  that  the  good,  as  a  reward  of  merit,  were 
metamorphosed  at  the  close  of  life  into  feathered 
songsters,  and  as  such  were  permitted  to  pass  a  cer 
tain  term  in  the  beautiful  groves  of  Paradise.  To 

304 


Margaret  Coulson  Walker          305 

them,  as  to  all  North  American  Indians,  thunder  was 
the  cloud  bird  flapping  his  mighty  wings,  while  the 
lightning  was  the  flash  of  his  eye.  The  people  of 
other  countries  believed  that  higher  powers  showed 
their  displeasure  by  transforming  wrong-doers  into 
birds  and  animals  as  a  punishment  for  their  crimes. 

In  all  lands  birds  were  invested  with  the  power  of 
prophecy.  They  were  believed  to  possess  superior 
intelligence  through  being  twice-born,  once  as  an  egg, 
and  again  as  an  animal.  Because  of  their  wisdom, 
not  only  they,  but  their  graven  images  also,  were  con 
sulted  on  all  important  affairs  of  life.  Many  nations, 
notably  the  Japanese,  are  still  believers  in  the  direct 
communication  between  man  and  unseen  beings, 
through  birds  and  other  agents.  In  their  country, 
birds  are  regarded  as  sacred,  and  for  this  reason  the 
agriculturist  gladly  shares  with  them  the  fruit  of 
his  toil. 

While  we  of  to-day  attach  no  supernatural  signifi 
cance  to  the  presence  of  these  feathered  songsters, 
and  even  though  to  us  they  possess  no  powers  of 
prophecy,  we  can  find  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in 
observing  these  beings  whose  boding  cries  were 
regarded  as  omens  by  the  greatest  of  earth  —  beings 
whose  actions  in  Vespasian's  time  were  considered  of 
vital  national  importance. 

Aside  from  their  historic  and  literary  interest,  these 
multitudinous,  and  often  contradictory,  legends  and 


306  Our  Bird  Friends 

superstitions  are  of  interest  to  us  as  a  part  of  the  faith 
of  our  fathers,  much  of  which,  combined  with  other 
and  higher  things,  is  in  us  yet.  These  beliefs  of 
theirs,  like  many  of  what  we  are  pleased  to  think  our 
original  ideas  and  opinions  to-day,  were  hereditary 
and  largely  a  matter  of  geography. 

In  ancient  times  the  chief  birds  of  portent  were  the 
raven  or  crow,  the  owl  and  the  woodpecker,  though 
there  were  a  number  of  others  on  the  prophetic  list. 

As  an  example  of  interest  let  us  consider  our  friend 
the  raven  and  his  congener  the  crow,  who  are  so  con 
fused  in  literature,  as  well  as  in  the  minds  of  those 
not  familiar  with  ornithological  classification,  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  treat  them  separately.  The 
raven  is  a  larger  bird  and  not  quite  so  widely  dis 
tributed  as  the  crow,  but  in  general  appearance  and 
habits  they  are  practically  the  same. 

If  tradition  is  to  be  credited,  we  are  more  indebted 
to  this  bird  of  ancient  family  than  to  any  other 
feathered  creature,  for  he  has  played  an  important 
part  in  history,  sacred  and  profane,  in  literature, 
and  in  art. 

On  the  authority  of  the  Koran  we  know  that  it  was 
he  who  first  taught  man  to  bury  his  dead.  When 
Cain  did  not  know  what  disposition  to  make  of  the 
body  of  his  slain  brother,  "  God  sent  a  raven,  who 
killed  another  raven  in  his  presence  and  then  dug  a 
pit  with  his  beak  and  claws  and  buried  him  therein." 


Margaret  Coulson  Walker          307 

It  was  the  raven  whom  Noah  sent  forth  to  learn 
whether  the  waters  had  abated  —  one  of  the  rare 
instances  wherein  he  ever  proved  faithless  to  his 
trust  —  and  it  was  he  who  gave  sustenance  to  the 
prophet  Elijah. 

In  Norse  mythology,  Odin,  the  greatest  of  all  the 
gods,  the  raven's  God,  had  for  his  chief  advisers  two 
ravens,  Hugin  and  Munin  (Mind  and  Memory),  who 
were  sent  out  by  him  each  morning  on  newsgathering 
journeys,  and  who  returned  to  him  at  nightfall  to 
perch  on  his  shoulders  and  whisper  into  his  ears 
intelligence  of  the  day.  When  news  of  unusual  im 
portance  was  desired,  Odin  himself  in  raven  guise 
went  forth  to  seek  it,  and  when  the  Norse  armies 
went  into  battle  they  followed  the  raven  standard,  a 
banner  under  which  William  the  Conqueror  fought. 
When  bellied  by  the  breezes  it  betokened  success,  but 
when  it  hung  limp,  only  defeat  was  expected. 

Norse  navigators  took  with  them  a  pair  of  ravens 
to  be  liberated  and  followed  as  guides;  if  the  bird 
returned  it  was  known  that  land  did  not  lie  in  that 
direction;  if  they  did  not,  they  were  followed.  The 
discoveries  of  both  Iceland  and  Greenland  are 
attributed  to  their  leadership. 

To  the  Romans  and  Greeks  the  raven  was  the  chief 
bird  of  omen,  whose  effigy  was  borne  on  their  ban 
ners,  and  whose  auguries  were  followed  with  greatest 
confidence,  while  to  the  German  mind  he  was  his 


308  Our  Bird  Friends 

satanic  majesty  made  manifest  in  feathers.  In  some 
part?  of  Germany  these  birds  are  believed  to  hold  the 
souls  of  the  damned,  while  in  other  European  sections 
priests  only  are  believed  to  be  so  reincarnated. 

In  Sweden  the  ravens  croaking  at  night  in  the 
swamps  are  said  to  be  the  ghosts  of  murdered  persons 
who  have  been  denied  Christian  burial,  and  whom  on 
this  account  Charon  has  refused  ferriage  across  the 
River  Styx. 

As  a  companion  of  saints  this  bird  has  had  too 
many  experiences  to  mention. 

By  some  nations  he  was  regarded  as  the  bearer  of 
propitious  news  from  the  gods  —  and  sacrosanct,  to 
others  he  was  the  precursor  of  evil  and  an  object  of 
dread.  With  divining  power,  which  enabled  him  for 
ages  to  tell  the  farmer  of  coming  rain,  the  maiden  of 
the  coming  of  her  lover  and  the  invalid  of  the  coming 
of  death,  he  was  received  with  joy  or  sadness,  accord 
ing  to  the  messages  he  bore. 

In  England  he  was  looked  upon  with  greater  favor ; 
there  the  mere  presence  of  the  home  of  a  raven  in  a 
tree-top  was  enough  to  insure  the  continuance  in 
power  of  the  family  owning  the  estate. 

The  wealth  of  raven  literature  bears  indubitable 
testimony  to  the  interest  people  of  all  times  and  all 
localities  have  felt  in  this  remarkable  bird  —  an 
interest  certain  to  increase  with  acquaintance. 

To  one  with  mind  open  to  rural  charm,  this  pic- 


Margaret  Coulson  Walker          309 

turesque  bird,  solemnly  stalking  about  the  fields,  or 
majestically  flapping  his  way  to  the  treetops,  is  as 
much  a  part  of  the  landscape  as  the  fields  themselves, 
or  the  trees  upon  their  borders ;  it  possesses  an  interest 
different  from  that  of  any  other  creature  of  the 
feathered  race.  Though  he  no  longer  pursues  the 
craft  of  the  augur,  his  superior  intelligence,  great 
dignity  and  general  air  of  mystery  inspire  confidence 
in  his  abilities  in  that  line. 

What  powers  were  his  in  the  old  days!  Foolish 
maidens  and  ignorant  sailors  might  put  their  faith  in 
the  divining  powers  of  the  flighty  wren ;  others  might 
consult  the  swallow  and  the  kingfisher;  but  it  was  to 
the  "  many- wintered  crow  "  that  kings  and  the  great 
ones  of  earth  applied  for  advice,  and  it  was  he  who 
never  failed  them.  According  to  Pliny,  he  was  the 
only  bird  capable  of  realizing  the  meaning  of  his 
portents. 

In  the  early  morning  light  the  worthy  successors  of 
the  ancient  Hugin  and  Munin  go  forth  to-day  in 
quest  of  news  of  interest  to  their  clan,  just  as  those 
historic  messengers  did  in  the  days  when  the  mighty 
Norse  gods  awaited  their  return,  that  they  might  act 
on  the  intelligence  gathered  by  them  during  the  day 
light  hours;  and  when  slanting  beams  call  forth  the 
vesper  songs  of  more  tuneful  birds,  they  return,  fol 
lowed  by  long  lines  of  other  crows,  to  their  usual 
haunts  on  the  borders  of  the  marshes.  Singly  or  in 


310  Our  Bird  Friends 

long  lines,  never  in  loose  flocks  like  blackbirds,  they 
arrive  from  all  directions,  till  what  must  be  the  whole 
tribe  is  gathered  together  —  a  united  family  —  for 
the  night's  repose. 

As  there  in  the  treetops  in  the  early  evening,  in 
convention  assembled,  they  discuss  important  affairs, 
who  can  doubt  that  certain  ones  of  their  number  are 
recognized  as  leaders,  and  that  they  have  some  form 
of  government  among  themselves  ?  One  after  another 
delivers  himself  of  a  harangue,  then  the  whole  assem 
blage  joins  in  noisy  applause  —  or  is  it  disapproval? 
At  other  times  sociability  seems  to  be  the  sole  object 
of  the  gathering. 

As  one  old  crow,  more  meditative  than  the  rest,  at 
the  close  of  the  conclave  always  betakes  himself  to 
the  same  perch,  the  lonely,  up-thrust  shaft  of  a 
lightning-shattered  tree  on  the  hillside,  we  decide  that 
here  is  old  Munin,  who  has  selected  this  perch  as  one 
favorable  to  meditation  —  a  place  where  he  may 
ponder  undisturbed  over  the  occurrences  of  the  day. 

Others  among  the  group  have  habits  as  fixed  and 
noticeable.  Even  though  approaching  his  perch  from 
the  opposite  direction,  one  will  be  seen  to  circle  and 
draw  near  it  from  the  accustomed  side;  some  of  the 
more  decided  ones  will  invariably  remain  just  where 
they  alight;  others  will  turn  around  and  arrange 
themselves  on  their  perches  indefinitely.  In  the  fields 
it  will  be  noticed  that  some  are  socially  inclined  and 


Margaret  Coulson  Walker          311 

forage  in  groups,  while  others,  either  from  personal 
choice  or  that  of  their  neighbors,  are  more  solitary. 
Like  members  of  the  human  family,  each  has  his  own 
individual  characteristic. 

While  the  chief  charm  of  the  crow  is  his  intelli 
gence,  his  dignity  also  claims  our  attention.  Who 
ever  saw  one  of  his  tribe  do  anything  foolish  or 
unbecoming  to  the  funeral  director  he  has  been  ever 
since  the  birth  of  time,  and  that  he  must  ever  be  while 
time  endures?  The  ancients  believed  him  to  be  able 
to  scent  a  funeral  several  days  before  death  occurred, 
so  sensitive  was  he  to  mortuary  influences,  and  there 
is  little  doubt  he  still  possesses  the  power  to  discern 
approaching  death  in  many  creatures  smaller  than 
himself  —  and  to  whom  he  expects  to  extend  the 
rite  of  sepulchre.  Inside  and  out  he  is  clothed  in 
deepest  black;  even  his  tongue  and  the  inside  of  his 
mouth  are  in  mourning.  Seeming  to  think  it  in 
cumbent  on  him  to  live  up  to  his  funeral  garb  and 
occupation,  faithful  to  his  trust,  with  clerical 
solemnity  he  goes  about  his  everyday  duties. 

Gazing  on  them  from  his  watchtower  in  the  tree 
tops,  what  does  this  grave  creature  think  of  the  gayer 
birds  that  dwell  in  the  meadows  and  groves  round 
about?  What  thinks  he  of  the  clownish  bobolink,  in 
motley  nuptial  livery,  pouring  out  his  silly  soul  in 
gurgling,  rollicking  song,  in  his  efforts  to  please  a 
possible  mate,  then  quarreling  with  both  her  and  his 


312  Our  Bird  Friends 

rivals,  who  also  have  donned  cap  and  bell  to  win  her 
favor?  What  of  the  unpretentious  home  —  a  mere 
hollow  in  the  ground  —  where  the  care- free  pair  go 
to  housekeeping?  What  of  the  redwings  building 
their  nests  among  the  reeds  in  the  midst  of  the 
marsh  —  so  low  as  almost  to  touch  the  water?  Of 
the  fitful  wren,  incessantly  singing  of  love  to  his 
mate,  yet  who  fails  to  assist  her  in  nest-building,  and 
who  proves  but  an  indifferent  provider  for  his  young 
family?  Of  the  lonely  phoebe,  calling  in  plaintive, 
mysterious  tones  to  a  mate  unresponsive  to  his  sor 
rowful  beseechings?  Of  the  robin,  who  makes  of  the 
grove  a  sanctuary?  He  doubtless  has  his  opinions 
concerning  every  one  of  them,  for  he  views  them  all 
with  interest.  Hearing  all  the  other  birds  singing 
their  love  and  seeing  them  winning  favor  with  their 
brilliant  colors,  does  he  envy  them? 

On  the  theory  of  compensation,  his  sterling  quali 
ties  render  accomplishments  and  decorative  raiment 
unnecessary.  With  no  song  in  which  to  tell  his  story, 
and  no  garments  gay  to  captivate  the  eye,  the  crow 
must  needs  live  his  love  —  and  he  does  —  to  the  end. 
Seriously  he  wins  the  mate  to  whom  he  remains  true 
forever.  To  him  the  marital  bond  is  not  the  mere 
tie  of  a  season,  but  one  that  holds  through  life.  He 
assists  the  dusky  bride  of  his  choice  in  establishing  a 
commodious  home  in  the  most  commanding  situation 
available  —  the  top  of  the  tallest  tree  in  the  edge  of 


Margaret  Coulson  Walker          313 

the  wood,  and  which  may  have  been  planted  by  one 
of  his  ancestors.  He  assists  her  in  giving  warmth  to 
their  eggs  in  the  nest.  He  carries  food  to  her  while 
she  broods  over  them.  He  braves  every  danger  in 
protecting  both  her  and  them  against  predatory 
hawks  and  owls  and  frolicking  squirrels,  to  whom  he 
is  known  as  the  "  warrior  crow."  With  tenderest 
solicitude  he  relieves  his  mate  as  far  as  he  can  in 
ministering  to  their  nestlings. 

And  what  of  the  young  crows  in  the  nest?  When 
their  elders  are  away  on  commissary  tours,  the  young 
ones,  bewailing  the  absence  of  parents  almost  con 
stantly,  are  always  found,  on  the  return,  in  attitudes 
of  expectancy.  To  them  the  approach  of  older  crows, 
even  though  it  be  from  the  left,  is  never  ominous  of 
anything  but  good.  And  when  after  many  excursions 
baby  appetites  have  been  satisfied,  in  their  lofty 
cradles  in  the  tree  tops,  the  infant  crows  are  rocked 
by  the  breezes,  and  though  the  tuneless  throats  of  the 
parents  yield  no  songs  they  are  not  without  music, 
for  soft  seolian  lullabies  soothe  them  to  sleep. 

On  hearing  farmers  talk,  one  would  think  that  the 
diet  of  the  crow  is  entirely  granivorous,  while  no  bird 
has  a  more  adaptable  appetite;  everything  eatable  is 
perfectly  acceptable  —  harmful  grubs,  beetles,  worms, 
young  rats,  mice,  snakes  and  moles,  as  well  as  mol- 
lusks,  acorns,  nuts,  wild  fruit  and  berries  are  among 
his  staple  articles  of  diet.  And,  though  it  is  no 


314  Our  Bird  Friends 

longer  believed  that  "  he  shakes  contagion  from  his 
ominous  wing,"  he  occasions  a  lamentable  amount  of 
infant  mortality  among  rabbits,  and  squirrels,  and 
even  among  weak-limbed  lambs,  depriving  them  of 
health,  strength  and  happiness  —  but  not  through 
magic.  These  last  he  attacks  in  the  eye,  as  the  most 
vulnerable  point.  In  the  old  days  he  is  reputed  to 
have  met  with  great  success  as  an  oculist;  in  these 
his  patients  never  recover. 

In  winter,  when  cereal  stores  and  acorns  which 
supply  the  season's  want  lie  buried  in  the  snow,  and 
when  such  animals  as  in  youth  were  ready  prey  have 
grown  to  a  more  formidable  majority,  crows  fre 
quently  suffer  and  perish  from  hunger,  and  when 
snows  lie  long  on  the  ground  many  of  them  are  found 
dead  beneath  their  roosting  places. 

The  voice  of  the  crow  when  heard  distinctly  has 
in  it  something  of  the  winter's  harshness  and  seems 
to  harmonize  best  with  winter  sounds  —  creaking 
boughs  and  shrieking  winds  —  but  when  modulated 
by  distance  it  is  not  unmusical.  In  the  twilight,  when 
calling  to  his  belated  brethren  across  the  marshes,  his 
uncanny  call  might  well  be  taken  for  the  cry  of  a  lost 
soul  craving  Christian  burial.  Yet  this  might  depend 
on  one's  mood.  To  each  he  seems  to  speak  a  different 
language.  To  St.  Athanasius  he  said :  "  Cras, 
eras!"  (To-morrow,  to-morrow).  To  the  sympa 
thetic  Tennyson  he  always  called,  in  tenderest  accents, 
the  name  "  Maud." 


Margaret  Coulson  Walker          315 

Though  this  bird  is  said  to  have  no  tongue  for 
expressing  the  happier  emotions,  the  voice  of  the 
mother  crow  when  soothing  her  nestlings,  with 
gurgling  notes  of  endearment,  H  tender  as  the  robin's; 
and  the  head  of  the  family,  though  croaking  savagely 
when  his  mate  is  molested,  and  though  able  to  send 
an  exultant  "  caw  "  after  a  retreating  enemy,  never 
lowers  himself  by  scolding  as  the  jay  does. 

Whatever  his  faults  may  be  —  and  they  are  many 
—  to  anyone  taking  the  trouble  to  study  the  crow, 
either  in  captivity  or  in  his  native  environment,  he 
will  prove  the  most  interesting  example  of  his  race, 
an  agreeable  companion,  an  ideal  home-maker,  a 
thrifty  being,  a  liberal  provider,  an  able  defender  of 
his  family,  a  destroyer  of  harmful  insect  and  animal 
life,  a  burier  of  the  dead,  a  creature  of  dignity,  a  keen 
observer,  and  the  intellectual  marvel  of  the  bird 
world. 


A  Load  of  Hay 

By  James  B.  Weaver 

Hard  paved  streets  and  hurrying  feet, 

Where  it's  oft  but  a  nod  when  old   friends  meet, 

Rattle  of  cart  and  shriek  of  horn, 

Laughing  Youth  and  Age  forlorn, 

Bound  for  the  office  I  speed  away, 

When  my  auto  brushes  —  a  load  of  hay ! 

Chauffeur  curses,  I  scarcely  hear, 
For  things  I  loved  as  a  boy  seem  near: 
Scent  of  meadows  at  early  morn, 
Miles  of  waving  fields  of  corn, 
Lowing  cattle  and  colts  at  play  — 
Far  have  I  drifted  another  way! 

Hark,  the  bell  as  it  calls  the  noon! 
Boys  at  their  chores,  hear  them  whistle  a  tune! 
Barn  doors  creaking  on  rusty  locks, 
Rattle  of  corn  in  the  old  feed-box, 
Answering  nicker  at  toss  of  hay  — 
Old  sweet  sounds  of  a  far-off  day. 

316 


James  B.  Weaver  317 

There,  my  driver  stops  with  a  jerk; 
Then  far  aloft  to  the  scene  of  my  work; 
But  all  day  long  midst  the  city's  roar 
My  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  boy  once  more, 
My  feet  in  old-time  fields  astray, 
Lured  —  by  the  scent  from  a  load  of  hay! 


Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

By  Johnson  Brigham  * 

LITERARY  IOWA  IN  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 
Late  in  the  last  century  readers  of  books  awoke  to 
the  fact  that  the  world-including,  world-inviting 
prairies  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  were  no  longer 
inarticulate ;  that  in  this  great  "  Heart  of  the  World's 
Heart,"  among  the  millions  who  have  been  drawn  to 
these  prairie  states,  there  are  lives  as  rich  —  in  all  that 
really  enriches  —  as  those  immortalized  in  the  liter 
ature  of  New  England,  or  of  the  Pacific  slope.  It 
was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  westward-moving 
impulse  to  create  would  cease  on  reaching  the  Missis 
sippi  River. 

In  Iowa's  pioneer  days  but  little  original  matter 
found  its  way  into  print  except  contributions  to  the 
rough  and  ready  journalism  of  the  period.  A  few 
pioneer  writers,  possessed  of  the  historiographer's 
instinct,  performed  a  rare  service  to  the  young  com 
monwealth  by  passing  on  to  future  generations  their 
first-hand  knowledge  of  the  prominent  men  and 
events  of  the  first  half  of  the  century.  Chief  among 

*Editor  of  the  "Midland  Monthly"  and  author  of  "Life  of 
James  Harlan,"  "Iowa — Its  History  and  Its  Foremost  Citi 
zens,"  "An  Old  Man's  Idyl,"  etc. 

318 


Johnson  Brigham  319 

these  are  Theodore  S.  Parvin,  Willam  Salter,  Alex 
ander  R.  Fulton,  Samuel  S.  Howe  and  Charles 
Aldrich.  The  two  last  named  published  several  series 
of  "  The  Annals  of  Iowa  "  which  remain  unfailing 
reservoirs  of  information  to  later  historians  and  stu 
dents  of  Iowa  history.  Iowa  Masonry  is  specially 
indebted  to  Professor  Parvin  for  his  invaluable 
contributions  to  the  history  of  the  order  in  Iowa. 
Dr.  Salter  wrote  the  first  notable  Iowa  biography, 
that  of  James  W.  Grimes,  published  in  1876. 
Fulton's  "  Red  Men  of  Iowa  "  is  as  valuable  as  it  is 
rare,  for,  though  written  as  late  as  1882,  it  is  the  first 
exhaustive  attempt  to  describe  the  tribes  originally 
inhabiting  Iowa. 

The  war  period — 1861-5  —  developed  "Iowa  in 
War  Times,"  by  S.  H.  M.  Byers,  and  "  Iowa 
Colonels  and  Regiments,"  by  A.  A.  Stuart,  also  many 
valuable  personal  sketches  and  regimental  histories. 

Long  before  the  close  of  the  century,  the  name  of 
Samuel  Hawkins  Marshall  Byers  had  grown  familiar 
to  the  people  of  Iowa,  because  of  the  popularity  of 
his  song  entitled  "  Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea,"  and 
because  contemporary  historians,  attracted  by  its  sug 
gestive  title,  adapted  it  as  especially  appropriate  for 
the  most  dramatic  event  in  the  history  of  the  war 
for  the  Union. 

Major  Byers'  most  lasting  contribution  to  litera 
ture  is  his  poem  "  The  March  to  the  Sea,"  epic  in 


320          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

character  and  interspersed  with  lyrics  of  the  war. 
Reading  this,  one  can  hear  the  thrilling  bugle  call,  and 
"  see  once  again  the  bivouacs  in  the  wood." 

Looking  again,  one  can  see  the  army  in  motion  — 

"  A  sight  it  was !  that  sea  of  army  blue, 
The  sloping  guns  of  the  swift  tramping  host, 

Winding  its  way  the  fields  and  forests  through, 
As  winds  some  river  slowly  to  the  coast. 

The  snow-white  trains,  the  batteries  grim,  and  then 
The  steady  tramp  of  sixty  thousand  men." 
Passing  over  pages  filled  with  stories  of  the  camp 
and  march,  and  with  moving  pictures  of  the  dusky 
throng  of  camp-followers  who  saw  in  the  coming  of 
Sherman's  men  "  God's  new  exodus,"  we  come  to  the 
dramatic  climax: 

"  But  on  a  day,  while  tired  and  sore  they  went, 
Across  some  hills  wherefrom  the  view  was  free, 

A  sudden  shouting  down  the  lines  was  sent ; 
They  looked  and  cried,  '  This  is  the  sea !  the  sea ! ' 
And  all  at  once  a  thousand  cheers  were  heard 
And  all  the  army  shout  the  glorious  word. 

"  Bronzed  soldiers  stood  and  shook  each  other's  hands ; 
Some  wept  for  joy,  as  for  a  brother  found ; 

And  down  the  slopes,  and  from  the  far-off  sands, 
They  thought  they  heard  already  the  glad  sound 
Of  the  old  ocean  welcoming  them  on 
To  that  great  goal  they  had  so  fairly  won." 
I  would  not  be  unmindful  of  our  Iowa  poet's  other 
contributions.     Before  the  century's  close,  Mr.  Byers 
had    written    "  Switzerland    and    the    Swiss,"    and 


Johnson  Brigham  321 

"  What  I  saw  in  Dixie,"  also  a  book  of  verse  entitled 
"  Happy  Isles  and  Other  Poems,"  besides  much  occa 
sional  verse  in  celebration  of  events  in  Iowa  history. 
So  many  and  excellent  are  Major  Byers'  contributions 
to  such  occasions  that  their  author  has  fitly  been 
styled  the  "  uncrowned  poet  laureate  of  Iowa."  The 
title  is  strengthened  by  two  distinctively  Iowa  songs, 
one,  "The  Wild  Rose  of  Iowa,"  a  tribute  to  our 
State  Flower;  the  other  entitled  "  Iowa,"  sung  to  the 
air  of  "  My  Maryland." 

One  of  Iowa's  pioneer  poets  was  signally  honored 
by  public  insistence  that  his  "  swan  song  "  was  the 
song  of  another  and  greater.  In  July,  1863,  John  L. 
McCreery,  of  Delhi,  Iowa,  published  in  Arthur's 
Home  Magazine  a  poem  entitled  "  There  Is  No 
Death."  The  poem  went  the  round  of  the  press 
attributed  to  Bulwer  Lytton.  A  newspaper  contro 
versy  followed,  the  result  of  which  was  that  the  Iowa 
poet  was  generally  awarded  the  palm  of  authorship. 
But  error  sometimes  seems  to  possess  more  vitality 
than  truth!  Every  few  years  thereafter,  the  Mc 
Creery  poem  would  make  another  round  of  the  press 
with  Bulwer  Lytton's  name  attached!  Finally,  in 
response  to  urgent  request,  the  modest  author  pub 
lished  his  story  of  the  poem. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  circumstances  under 
which  the  first  and  best  stanza  was  conceived.  The 
author  was  riding  over  the  prairie  on  horseback 


322          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

when  night  overtook  him.  Orion  was  "  riding  in 
triumph  down  the  western  sky."  The  "  subdued  and 
tranquil  radiance  of  the  heavenly  host "  imparted  a 
hopeful  tinge  to  his  somber  meditations  on  life  and 
death,  and  under  the  inspiration  of  the  scene  he  com 
posed  the  lines: 

"  There  is  no  death ;  the  stars  go  down 

To  rise  upon  some  other  shore; 
And  bright  in  heaven's  jeweled  crown 

They  shine  forever  more." 

The  next  morning  he  wrote  other  stanzas,  the  last 
of  which  reads: 

"  And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 
The  dear,  immortal  spirits  tread; 
For  all  the  boundless  universe 
Is  life  —  there  are  no  dead." 

One  of  the  curiosities  of  literature  is  the  fact  that 
the  substitution  of  Bulwer's  name  for  that  of  the 
author  arose  from  the  inclusion  of  McCreery's  poem 
(without  credit)  in  an  article  on  "  Immortality " 
signed  by  one  "  E.  Bulmer."  An  exchange  copied 
the  poem  with  the  name  Bulmer  "  corrected "  to 
Bulwer  —  and  thus  it  started  on  its  rounds.  As  late 
as  1870,  Harper's  "  Fifth  Reader  "  credited  the  poem 
to  Lord  Lytton !  The  Granger  "  Index  to  Poetry  " 
(1904)  duly  credits  it  to  the  Iowa  author. 

It  is  interesting  to  recall,  in  passing,  the  fact  that 
nowhere  in  or  out  of  the  state  is  there  to  be  found  a 
copy  of  McCreery's  little  volume  of  "  Songs  of  Toil 


Johnson  Brigham  323 

and  Triumph,"  published  by  Putnam's  Sons  in  1883, 
the  unsold  copies  of  which  the  author  says  he  bought, 
"thus  acquiring  a  library  of  several  hundred 
volumes." 

It  seems  to  have  been  the  fate  of  Iowa's  pioneer 
poets  to  find  their  verse  attributed  to  others.  So  it 
was  with  Belle  E.  Smith's  well-known  poem,  "  If  I 
Should  Die  To-night."  Under  the  reflex  action  of 
Ben  King's  clever  parody,  it  has  been  the  habit  of 
newspaper  critics  to  smile  at  Miss  Smith's  poem.  But 
when  we  recall  the  fact  that  several  poets  thought 
well  enough  of  it  to  stake  their  reputation  on  it;  and 
that,  in  the  course  of  its  odyssey  to  all  parts  of  the 
English-reading  world,  it  was  variously  attributed  to 
Henry  Ward  Beecher,  F.  K.  Crosby,  Robert  C.  V. 
Myers,  Lucy  Hooper,  Letitia  E.  Landon,  and  others, 
and  that  Rider  Haggard  used  it,  in  a  mutilated  form, 
in  "  Jess,"  leaving  the  reader  to  infer  that  it  was  part 
of  his  own  literary  creation,  may  we  not  conclude  that 
the  verse  is  a  real  poem  worthy  of  its  place  in  the 
anthologies?  In  the  Granger  Index  (1904)  it  is 
credited  to  Robert  C.  V.  Myers,  —  the  credit  followed 
by  the  words :  "  Attributed  to  Arabella  E.  Smith  " ! 

If  support  of  Miss  Smith's  unasserted  but  now 
indisputable  claim  to  the  poem  be  desired,  it  can  be 
found  in  Professor  W.  W.  Gist's  contribution  on  the 
subject  entitled  "  Is  It  Unconscious  Assimilation  ?  "* 


*Midland  Monthly,  March,  1894. 


324          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

Miss  Smith  —  long  a  resident  of  Newton,  Iowa,  and 
later  a  sojourner  in  California  until  her  recent 
death  —  was  of  a  singularly  retiring  nature.  She 
lived  much  within  herself  and  thought  profoundly,  as 
her  poetical  contributions  to  the  Midland  Monthly 
reveal.  In  none  of  her  other  poems  did  she  reveal 
herself  quite  as  clearly  as  in  the  poem  under  con 
sideration.  It  is  in  four  stanzas.  In  the  first  is  this 
fine  line  referring  to  her  own  face,  calm  in  death: 
"  And  deem  that  death  had  left  it  almost  fair." 

The  poem  concludes  with  the  pathetic  word  to  the 
living : 

"  Oh !  friends,  I  pray  to-night, 

Keep  not  your  kisses  for  my  dead,  cold  brow  — 

The  way  is  lonely,  let  me  feel  them  now. 

Think  gently  of  me ;  I  am  travel-worn ; 

My  faltering  feet  are  pierced  with  many  a  thorn. 

Forgive,  O  hearts  estranged;  forgive,  I  plead! 

When  dreamless  rest  is  mine  I  shall  not  need 

The  tenderness  for  which  I  long  to-night !  " 

I  like  to  think  of  the  veteran  Tacitus  Hussey,  of 
Des  Moines,  as  that  octogenarian  with  the  heart  of 
youth.  This  genial  poet  and  quaint  philosopher  made 
a  substantial  contribution  to  the  century's  output  of 
literature,  a  collection  of  poems  of  humor  and  senti 
ment  entitled  "The  River  Bend  and  Other  Poems." 
This  author  has  contributed  the  words  of  a  song 
which  is  reasonably  sure  of  immortality.  I  refer  to 
"  Iowa,  Beautiful  Land,"  set  to  music  by  Congress- 


Johnson  Brigham  325 

man  H.  M.  Towner.     It  fairly  sings  itself  into  the 
melody. 

"  The  corn-fields  of  billowy  gold, 

In  Iowa,  '  Beautiful  Land/ 
Are  smiling  with  treasure  untold, 

In  Iowa,  '  Beautiful  Land.'  " 

The  next  stanza,  though  including  one  prosaic  line, 
has  taken  on  a  new  poetic  significance  since  the  war- 
stricken  nations  of  the  old  world  are  turning  to 
America  for  food.  The  stanza  concludes: 

"  The  food  hope  of  nations  is  she  — 
With  love  overflowing  and  free 
And  her  rivers  which  run  to  the  sea, 
In  Iowa,  '  Beautiful  Land.'  " 

Among  lowans  in  middle-life  and  older,  the  name 
of  Robert  J.  Burdette,  or  "  Bob  "  Burdette  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  brings  vividly  to  mind  a  genial, 
sunny  little  man  from  Burlington,  who  went  about 
doing  good,  making  people  forget  their  woes  by 
accepting  his  philosophy  —  a  simple  philosophy,  that 
of  looking  upon  the  sunny  side  of  life.  The  "  Chimes 
from  a  Jester's  Bells  "  still  ring  in  our  ears,  though 
the  jester  has  passed  on. 

Reference  has  been  made  to  the  pioneer  magazine 
of  Iowa,  the  Midland  Monthly,  of  Des  Moines.  As 
its  eleven  volumes  include  the  first  contributions  of  a 
considerable  number  of  Iowa  authors  who  have  since 
become  famous,  this  publication  may  be  said  to  have 
inaugurated  an  era  of  intellectual  activity  in  Iowa. 


326          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

Its  first  number  contained  an  original  story,  "  The 
Canada  Thistle,"  by  "Octave  Thanet "  (Miss 
French),  a  group  of  poems  by  Hamlin  Garland  from 
advance  proofs  of  his  "  Prairie  Songs,"  an  original 
story  by  S.  H.  M.  Byers,  and  other  inviting  contri 
butions. 

Looking  back  over  the  Iowa  field  from  the  view 
point  of  1894,  when  the  Iowa  Magazine  entered 
upon  its  short-lived  career  (1894-99),  I  find,  in  addi 
tion  to  the  authors  and  works  already  mentioned,  a 
nationally  interesting  episode  of  the  John  Brown  raid, 
by  Governor  B.  F.  Gue.  Maud  Meredith  (Mrs. 
D wight  Smith),  Calista  Halsey  Patchin  and  Alice 
Ilgenfritz  Jones,  the  three  pioneer  novelists  of  Iowa, 
were  among  the  magazine's  contributors.  In  1879, 
the  Lippincotts  published  "  High-water  Mark "  by 
Mrs.  Jones.  In  1881  appeared  Maud  Meredith's 
"  Rivulet  and  Clover  Blossoms,"  and  two  years  later 
her  "  St.  Julien's  Daughter."  Mrs.  Patchin's  "  Two 
of  Us  "  appeared  at  about  the  same  time. 

Miss  Alice  French,  "  Octave  Thanet "  to  the  liter 
ary  world,  has  been  a  known  quantity  since  1887, 
when  her  fine  group  of  short  stories,  "  Knitters  in 
the  Sun,"  put  Iowa  on  the  literary  map.  "  Expia 
tion,"  "  We  All,"  a  book  for  boys,  "  Stones  of  a 
Western  Town"  and  "An  Adventure  in  Photog 
raphy  "  followed.  Miss  French  has  continued  to 
write  novels  and  short  stories  well  on  into  the  new 


Johnson  Brigham  327 

century.  In  fact  some  of  her  strongest  creations  bear 
the  twentieth  century  stamp. 

Hamlin  Garland  was  also  known  and  read  by  many 
as  early  as  the  eighties.  His,  too,  was  the  short- 
story  route  to  fame,  and  Iowa  was  his  field.  From 
his  literary  vantage  ground  in  Boston,  the  young 
author  wrote  in  the  guise  of  fiction  his  vivid  memories 
of  boy  life  and  the  life  of  youth  in  northeastern  Iowa 
and  southwestern  Wisconsin.  His  "  Main  Traveled 
Roads,"  the  first  of  many  editions  appearing  in  1891, 
made  him  famous.  Though  the  stories  contained 
flashes  of  humor,  the  dominant  note  was  serious,  as 
befitted  the  West  in  the  Seventies  in  which  the  author 
as  boy  and  man  struggled  with  adverse  conditions. 
But  the  joy  of  youth  would  rise  superior  to  circum 
stance,  as  is  evidenced  in  the  charming  sketch  of 
"  Boy  Life  in  the  West."*  I  like  to  recall  the  prose- 
poem  with  which  it  concludes: 

"  I  wonder  if,  far  out  in  Iowa,  the  boys  are  still 
playing  '  Hi  Spy '  around  the  straw-piles.  .  .  . 
That  runic  chant,  with  its  endless  repetitions,  doubt 
less  is  heard  on  any  moonlight  night  in  far-off  Iowa. 
I  wish  I  might  join  once  more  in  the  game  —  I  fear 
I  could  not  enjoy  '  Hi  Spy '  even  were  I  invited  to 
join.  But  I  sigh  with  a  curious  longing  for  some 
thing  that  was  mine  in  those  days  on  the  snowy  Iowa 
plains.  What  was  it?  Was  it  sparkle  of  winter 

*Midland  Monthly,  February,  1894. 


328          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

days?  Was  it  stately  march  of  moon?  Was  it  the 
presence  of  dear  friends  ?  Yes ;  all  these  and  more  — 
it  was  Youth !  " 

Before  the  century  closed,  this  transplanted  lowan 
had  also  written  "  Jason  Edwards,"  a  story  of  Iowa 
politics,  "  Wayside  Courtships,"  "  Prairie  Folks," 
"Spirit  of  Sweetwater,"  "Trail  of  the  Gold- 
seekers,"  and  scores  of  short  stories  first  published 
in  the  magazines. 

Mr.  Garland's  twentieth  century  output  has  been 
prolific  of  popular  novels  and  short  stories.  His  latest 
book,  "  A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border,"  is  pronounced 
by  William  Dean  Howells  a  unique  achievement  and 
ranking  well  up  with  the  world's  best  autobiographies. 

A  new  name  associated  with  Iowa  at  the  close  of 
the  last  century  was  that  of  Emerson  Hough.  :t  The 
Story  of  the  Cowboy"  (1897)  can  hardly  be  classed 
as  fiction,  and  yet  it  "  reads  like  a  romance."  Mr. 
Hough,  long  a  roving  correspondent  of  Forest  and 
Stream,  first  tried  "  his  'prentice  han'  "  as  a  story- 
writer  in  "  Belle's  Roses,"  a  tense  story  of  army  life 
on  the  plains.*  This  was  followed  by  several  prom 
ising  short  stories  and,  in  1902,  by  "  The  Mississippi 
Bubble,"  a  historical  romance  of  quality  founded 
upon  the  adventurous  career  of  John  Law,  pioneer  in 
the  fields  of  frenzied  finance.  Three  years  later  came 
his  "  Heart's  Desire,"  a  beautiful  love  story  of  the 
Southwest.  In  1907  appeared  his  "  Way  of  a  Man  " 

*Midland  Monthly,  June-July,  1895. 


Johnson  Brigham  329 

and  "  Story  of  the  Outlaw."  Several  other  novels 
have  come  from  his  facile  pen.  The  most  severely 
criticized  and  best  seller  of  the  series  is  his  "  54-40  or 
Fight,"  a  historical  novel  based  on  the  diplomatic 
controversy  over  Oregon  in  1845-6.  Mr.  Hough  is 
the  most  successful  alumnus  of  Iowa  State  Univer 
sity  in  the  difficult  field  of  fiction. 

Lingering  over  the  index  to  the  eleven  volumes  of 
Iowa's  pioneer  magazine,  I  am  tempted  to  mention  in 
passing  several  other  names  that  stand  out  promi 
nently  in  the  memory  of  Midland  readers. 

Mrs.  Virginia  H.  Reichard  contributed  an  interest 
ing  paper,  "  A  Glimpse  of  Arcadia."  Mrs.  Caroline 
M.  Hawley  gave  a  valuable  illustrated  paper  on 
"  American  Pottery."  Mrs.  Addie  B.  Billington, 
Mrs.  Virginia  K.  Berryhill,  Mrs.  Clara  Adele  Neidig, 
and  other  lowans  contributed  to  the  poetry  in  the 
magazine's  columns.  Hon  Jonathan  P.  Dolliver, 
Hon.  William  B.  Allison,  Gen.  James  B.  Weaver,  and 
many  other  men  prominent  in  the  public  life  of  Iowa 
contributed  articles  of  permanent  value.  Mrs.  Cora 
Bussey  Hillis  was  the  author  of  "  Madame  Deseree's 
Spirit  Rival."  Editor  Ingham,  of  the  Register,  then 
of  Algona,  Editor  Moorhead,  then  of  Keokuk,  now  a 
Des  Moines  journalist,  Minnie  Stichter  (Mrs.  C.  J. 
Fulton  of  Fairfield),  Mrs.  Harriet  C.  Towner,  of 
Corning,  Charles  Eugene  Banks,  born  in  Clinton 
County,  now  a  prominent  journalist  and  litterateur  in 


330          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

Seattle,  Dr.  J.  Foster  Bain,  then  assistant  state  geolo 
gist,  now  a  resident  of  London,  and  one  of  the 
world's  most  famous  consulting  geologists,  Barthinius 
L.  Wick,  of  Cedar  Rapids,  a  voluminous  historiog 
rapher,  are  among  the  many  who,  during  the  last  five 
years  of  the  old  century,  did  their  bit  toward  putting 
Iowa  on  the  literary  map. 

Irving  Berdine  Richman,  of  Muscatine,  had 
already  written  "  Appenzell,"  a  study  of  the  Swiss, 
with  whom,  as  consul-general,  he  had  lived  for  several 
years.  His  Midland  sketch,  "The  Battle  of  the 
Stoss,"  was  followed  by  a  little  volume,  "  John 
Brown  Among  the  Quakers,  and  Other  Sketches." 
But  the  two  great  historical  works  to  which  he  gave 
years  of  enthusiastic  research  were  not  published 
until  well  on  in  the  twentieth  century.  The  first  of 
these,  "  Rhode  Island ;  a  Study  of  Separation,"  was 
honored  with  an  introduction  by  John  Bryce.  It  was 
so  well  received  that  the  "  study  "  was  amplified  into 
a  two-volume  work,  "  Rhode  Island ;  Its  Making  and 
Meaning."  The  second,  a  work  compelling  years  of 
research  in  old  Mexico  and  Spain,  is  entitled  "  Cali 
fornia  Under  Spain  and  Mexico."  These  alone  give 
the  Iowa  historian  an  enviable  world-reputation. 
LITERARY  IOWA  IN  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 
Our  study  of  the  high  places  in  Iowa  literature  has 
already  been  somewhat  extended  into  the  new  century. 
The  transfer  of  the  Iowa  magazine  to  St.  Louis, 


Johnson  Brigham  331 

in  1898,  and  its  speedy  suspension  thereafter  did  not 
deter  many  lowans  from  continuing  to  write.  Diffi 
cult  as  it  was  for  our  unknowns  to  find  a  market  for 
their  wares  in  Eastern  magazines  and  publishing 
houses,  the  persistent  few,  who  knew  they  had  what 
the  public  should  want,  "  knocked  "  again  and  again 
"  at  the  golden  gates  of  the  morning,"  and  in  due 
time  the  gates  were  opened  unto  them. 

Edwin  Legrange  Sabin's  first  essay  in  Midland 
fiction  was  "  A  Ghostly  Carouse,"  —  full  of  promise. 
His  first  book,  "  The  Magic  Mashie  and  other  Golfish 
Stories,"  in  common  with  all  his  other  works,  throbs 
with  the  heart  of  youth.  His  magazine  verse,  mainly 
humorous,  has  the  same  quality.  Latterly  he  has  been 
illuminating  history,  and  especially  the  fast-dissolving 
wild  life  of  the  West,  with  stories  closely  adhering 
to  fact  and  yet  rampant  with  adventure  —  the  kind  of 
books  our  outdoor  boys  take  to  bed  with  them!  To 
his  readers  Kit  Carson,  Fremont,  Buffalo  Bill,  are  as 
much  alive  as  are  the  heroes  of  the  stadium,  the 
tennis  court  and  the  links.  But  underneath  this 
delightfully  light  literature  there  is  well-nigh  con 
cealed  a  poet  of  the  Swinburne  type,  as  witness  this 
bit  of  verse : 

"  Upon  the  purple  hillside,  vintage-stained, 
In  drowsy  langour  brown  October  lies, 

Like  one  who  has  the  banquet  goblet  drained, 

And  looks  abroad  with  dream  enchanted  eyes."  * 
^Country  Life  in  America,  October,  1902. 


332          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

Mrs.  Bertha  M.  Shambaugh's  Midland  sketch  of 
"  Amana  Colony;  a  Glimpse  of  the  Community  of 
True  Inspiration,"  *  suggested  something  more  than 
"  a  glimpse/'  and  in  1908  appeared  an  exhaustive 
study  of  that  "  peculiar  people,"  entitled  "  Amana, 
the  Community  of  True  Inspiration,"  a  valuable  con 
tribution  to  Iowa  history. 

Professor  Selden  L.  Whitcomb,  of  Grinnell,  had 
previously  published  several  outlines  for  the  study  of 
literature,  but  his  first  volume  of  "  Lyrical  Verse  " 
appeared  in  1898.  Two  other  books  of  poems  fol 
lowed,  one  in  1912,  the  other  in  1914.  His  verse  is 
marked  by  delicacy  of  poetical  suggestion  and  per 
fection  of  rhyme  and  rhythm. 

George  Meason  Whicher,  of  New  York,  whose 
name  is  now  often  seen  in  The  Continent  of  Chicago, 
is  the  author  of  "  From  Muscatine  and  Other 
Poems  "  and  of  recent  prose  with  Italian  and  Latin 
background.  Mr.  Whicher  is  the  author  of  four 
poems  in  tke  Midland,  all  harking  back  to  the  poet's 
boyhood  days  in  Muscatine,  Iowa. 

Dr.  Frank  Irving  Herriott,  dean  of  sociology  at 
Drake  University,  a  voluminous  writer  on  historical 
and  sociological  themes,  has  a  long  list  of  works  to 
his  credit,  all  bearing  twentieth  century  dates  except 
one  published  by  the  American  Academy  which 
appeared  in  1892.  He  wrote  for  the  Midland  a 

*  In  the  Midland  Monthly,  v.  6,  p.  27. 


Johnson  Brigham  333 

strong  plea  for  public  libraries,  a  plea  which,  doubt 
less,  had  its  influence  in  inaugurating  the  library 
movement  in  Iowa  beginning  with  the  new  century. 

Another  scholar  in  the  sociological  field  who  has 
made  his  impression  upon  thousands  of  students  and 
adult  readers  is  Dr.  Frank  L.  McVey,  president  of 
the  University  of  North  Dakota.  His  historical 
sketch  in  the  Midland,  "  The  Contest  in  the  Maumee 
Valley,"  was  followed  by  other  published  papers  and 
these  by  several  books  on  sociological  themes,  among 
them  "  Modern  Industrialism  "  and  "  The  Making  of 
a  Town/' 

There  are  few  more  scholarly  literary  critics  than 
Welker  Given,  of  Clinton,  Iowa.  His  Shakespearean 
and  classical  studies  have  won  for  him  an  enviable 
place  among  students  of  the  classics. 

Mrs.  Anna  Howell  Clarkson,  of  New  York,  wife 
of  Hon.  J.  S.  Clarkson,  long  prominent  in  Iowa  jour 
nalism  and  in  national  politics,  followed  up  her  Mid 
land  article  on  "  The  Evolution  of  Iowa  Politics " 
with  a  book  entitled  "  A  Beautiful  Life  and  Its  Asso 
ciations,"  a  tribute  of  loving  regard  to  a  former 
teacher  and  friend,  Mrs.  Drusilla  Alden  Stoddard. 

A  critique  on  "  Our  Later  Literature  and  Robert 
Browning"  in  the  Iowa  magazine  in  April,  1897, 
may,  or  may  not,  have  turned  the  current  of  Lewis 
Worthington  Smith's  whole  life;  but  its  critical  power 
made  friends  for  the  Nebraska  professor  and  warmed 


334          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

the  welcome  given  him  when,  in  1902,  he  took  up  his 
work  in  the  English  department  of  Drake  University 
of  Des  Moines.  While  Professor  Smith  has  pub 
lished  several  works  on  language  and  literature  and 
an  acting  drama  entitled  "  The  Art  of  Life,"  his 
literary  reputation  rests  mainly  upon  his  poetry. 
Since  the  opening  of  the  new  century,  volume  has 
followed  volume;  first  "God's  Sunlight,"  then  "In 
the  Furrow,"  and,  in  1916,  "  The  English  Tongue," 
and  "  Ships  in  Port."  Many  of  the  poems  in  the 
two  last  named  evince  the  impact  of  the  World  War 
upon  a  soul  of  strong  sensibilities.  Tempted  to  quote 
whole  poems,  as  showing  the  wide  range  of  this  poet's 
vision,  I  will  limit  myself  to  the  first  stanza  of  "  The 
English  Tongue  " : 
"  Words  that  have  tumbled  and  tossed  from  the  Avon 

and  Clyde 

On  to  where  Indus  and  Ganges  pour  down  to  the  tide. 
Words  that  have  lived,  that  have  felt,  that  have  gathered 

and  grown. 

Words !  Is  it  nothing  that  no  other  people  have  known 
Speech  of  such  myriad  voices,  so  full  and  so  free, 
Song  by  the  fireside  and  crash  of  the  thunders  at  sea  ?  " 

Jessie  Welborn  Smith,  wife  of  Professor  Smith,  is 
a  frequent  contributor  of  short  stories  and  sketches  to 
popular  magazines. 

The  late  Henry  Wallace,  though  for  many  years  an 
agricultural  editor  in  Iowa,  modestly  began  his  con 
tribution  to  general  literature  in  the  Midland  with  a 


Johnson  Brigham  335 

pen-picture  of  the  Scotch-Irish  in  America.  Subse 
quently  he  wrote  his  "  Uncle  Henry's  Letters  to  a 
Farm  Boy,"  which  has  run  through  many  editions; 
also  "Trusts  and  How  to  Deal  With  Them"  and 
"  Letters  to  the  Farm-Folk." 

Eugene  Secor,  of  Forest  City,  published  poems  in 
the  Midland  which  were  followed  by  "  Verses  for 
Little  Folk  and  Others,"  "A  Glimpse  of  Elysium" 
and  "  Voices  of  the  Trees." 

Helen  Hoyt  Sherman's  modest  "  Village  Romance  " 
led  to  a  long  list  of  popular  books,  published  since 
her  marriage  and  under  her  married  name,  Helen 
Sherman  Griffiths.  Born  in  Des  Moines,  her  present 
home  is  in  Cincinnati. 

Herbert  Bashford,  born  in  Sioux  City,  now  living 
in  Washington  and  California,  contributed  to  the 
Midland  a  half-dozen  poems  of  much  promise.  Mr. 
Bashford  is  now  literary  editor  of  the  San  Francisco 
Bulletin  and  has  several  books  of  poems  and  several 
popular  dramas  to  his  credit. 

Mrs.  Ella  Hamilton  Durley,  of  Los  Angeles, 
formerly  of  Des  Moines,  a  pioneer  president  of  our 
Press  and  Authors'  Club,  and  a  prolific  writer  for  the 
press,  followed  her  journal  and  magazine  successes 
with  two  novels,  "  My  Soldier  Lady  "  and  "  Stand 
patter,"  a  novel  of  Southern  California  love  and 
politics. 

Caroline  M.  Sheldon,  Professor  of  Romance  Lan- 


336          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

guages  in  Grinnell  College,  has  followed  up  her 
Midland  study  of  American  poetry  with  "  Princess 
and  Pilgrim  in  England,"  and  a  translation  and  study 
of  Echegary's  play,  "  The  Great  Galeoto." 

Many  still  recall  with  interest  the  realistic  serial 
which  ran  in  the  Midland,  entitled  "  The  Young 
Homesteaders,"  also  a  number  of  short  sketches  and 
stories  of  pioneer  life  in  the  West,  by  Frank  Welles 
Calkins,  then  of  Spencer,  Iowa,  now  a  Minnesotan. 
Mr.  Calkins  has  since  become  a  frequent  contributor 
to  magazines,  and  a  writer  of  books  of  outdoor  life 
and  adventure.  His  latest  novel,  "  The  Wooing  of 
Takala,"  appeared  in  1907. 

One  of  the  marked  successes  in  the  world  of  books 
and  periodicals  is  Julia  Ellen  Rogers,  long  a  teacher 
of  science  in  Iowa  high  schools.  While  a  resident  of 
Des  Moines  she  contributed  to  the  Midland  a  descrip 
tive  article,  "  Camping  and  Climbing  in  the  Big 
Horn,"  which  evinced  her  love  of  "  all  outdoors " 
and  her  ability  to  describe  what  she  saw.  Her 
editorial  connection  with  Country  Life  in  America 
and  her  popular  series  of  nature  studies,  "  Among 
Green  Trees,"  "Trees  Every  Child  Should  Know,5> 
"Earth  and  Sky,"  "Wild  Animals  Every  Child 
Should  Know,"  have  given  their  author  and  her 
books  a  warm  welcome  from  Maine  to  California. 

One  of  the  bright  particular  stars  in  our  firmament, 
remaining  almost  undiscovered  until  near  the  close  of 


Johnson  Brigham  337 

the  century's  first  decade,  is  Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  of 
Davenport.  Circumstances  —  his  father's  eminence 
at  the  bar  —  conspired  to  make  the  young  poet  a 
lawyer ;  but  he  could  not  —  long  at  a  time  —  close 
his  ears  to  the  wooing  of  the  muse,  and  off  he  went, 
at  frequent  intervals,  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  elusive 
Euterpe.  Though  still  a  lawyer  of  record,  the  in 
ward  call  of  the  soul  must  soon  become  too  strong  to 
be  resisted.  Poeta  nascitur.  I  can  see  the  young 
lawyer-poet  in  his  own  "  Dream  Harbor,"  and  can 
feel  his  glad  response  to  the  call  from  the  dream 
world  : 

"  Winds  of  the  South  from  the  sunny  beaches 
Under  the  headland  call  to  me; 

And  I  am  sick  for  the  purple  reaches, 
Olive-fringed,  by  an  idle  sea. 

"  Where  low  waves  of  the  South  are  calling 

Out  of  the  silent  sapphire  bay, 
And  slow  tides  are  rising,  falling, 

Under  the  cliffs  where  the  ripples  play." 

It  was  natural  that  the  sons  of  the  late  Henry 
Sabin  should  write  acceptably.  Though  slightly  older 
in  years,  Elbridge  H.  Sabin  is  younger  in  liter 
ature  than  his  brother  "  Ed."  The  first  decade  of 
the  new  century  was  well  advanced  before  Elbridge 
turned  his  attention  from  law  to  literature.  The 
brief  touch  of  life  in  the  open  given  him  while 
soldiering  during  the  Spanish-American  war  may 


338          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

have  suggested  the  change  in  his  career.  His  first 
essay  in  authorship  was  "  Early  American  History 
for  Young  Americans  "  (1904).  He  then  turned  his 
gaze  skyward  and  in  1907  appeared  "  Stella's  Adven 
tures  in  Starland."  Fairyland  next  invited  him  and 
in  1910  appeared  "  The  Magical  Man  of  Mirth," 
soon  followed  by  "  The  Queen  of  the  City  of  Mirth." 
In  1913  appeared  his  "Prince  Trixie." 

James  B.  Weaver,  son  of  General  Weaver,  another 
lawyer  with  the  poet  soul,  but  with  a  somewhat 
firmer  hold  on  "the  things  that  are,"  has  written 
much  prose  which  only  requires  the  touch  of  the  vers 
libre  editor  to  turn  it  into  poetry.  His  appreciation 
of  Kipling  and  other  poets  and  his  fine  character- 
sketches,  as  for  example  that  of  Martin  Burke,  pio 
neer  stage-driver  and  farmer,  are  remembered  with 
delight.  Just  once,  many  years  ago,  when,  a  happy 
father,  he  looked  for  the  first  time  upon  his  "  Baby 
Boy,"  the  poet  in  his  nature  obtained  the  upper  hand 
of  the  lawyer  and  he  wrote : 

"  O  golden  head !  O  sunny  heart ! 
Forever  joyous  be  thy  part 
In  this  fair  world ;  and  may  no  care 
Cut  short  thy  youth,  and  may  no  snare 
Entrap  thy  feet !  I  pray  thee,  God, 
For  smoother  paths  than  I  have  trod."  * 
Mr.  Weaver  was  president  of  the  Iowa  Press  and 
Authors    Club   in    1914-15    and   the    success   of   the 

*Midland  Monthly,  March,  1897. 


Johnson  Brigham  339 

famous  Iowa  Authors'  Homecoming  in  October,  1914, 
was  in  large  measure  due  to  his  untiring  efforts. 

In  that  Great  American  Desert  of  "  free  verse," 
the  Chicago  magazine,  Poetry,  the  persistent  seeker 
can  find  here  and  there  an  oasis  that  will  well  repay 
his  search.  One  of  these  surprises  is  a  poem  entitled 
"The  Wife,"*  by  Mrs.  Helen  Cowles  LeCron,  of 
Des  Moines.  It  is  the  plea  of  a  longing  soul  for 
relief  from  the  "  sullen  silence,"  and  the  "  great 
gaunt  shadows "  of  the  "  shaggy  mountains,"  and 
for  a  return  to  "  the  gentle  land,  "  and  to  "  the  care 
less  hours  when  life  was  very  sweet."  Mrs.  LeCron 
is  a  prolific  writer  of  clever  and  timely  verse  for  the 
press,  and  is  a  poet  of  many  possibilities. 

Honore  Willsie  (whose  maiden  name  is  Dunbar) 
was  born  in  Ottumwa,  Iowa,  is  a  graduate  of  the 
University  of  Wisconsin,  and  is  a  resident  of  New 
York  City.  To  her  able  editorship  may  be  attributed 
the  new  literary  quality  of  The  Delineator.  It  was 
Mrs.  Willsie's  varied  successes  as  a  writer  of  papers 
on  social  problems,  sketches,  short  stories  and  serials 
which  won  for  her  the  literary  editorship  of  that 
popular  periodical.  Her  success  as  a  novelist  mainly 
rests  upon  "  Heart  of  the  Desert,"  "  Still  Jim,"  and 
"Lydia  of  the  Pines,"  all  published  within  the  last 
four  years,  and  each  stronger  than  its  predecessor. 

A    successful    art    publisher    and    an    enthusiastic 

*  Poetry,  Chicago,  June,  1913. 


340          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

traveler,  Thomas  D.  Murphy,  a  native  lowan,  long  a 
resident  of  Red  Oak,  is  the  author  of  a  group  of 
well-written  and  profusely  illustrated  books  of  travel, 
all  written  within  the  last  decade,  as  follows: 
"  British  Highways  and  Byways  " ;  "  In  Unfamiliar 
England  " ;  "  Three  Wonderlands  of  the  American 
West";  "On  Old- World  Highways";  and  "On 
Sunset  Highways." 

Allan  Updegraff  is  a  born  lowan  whose  fame  has 
come  early  in  life.  His  "  Second  Youth"  (1917)  is 
winning  praise  from  the  critics  as  "  an  agreeable  con 
trast  with  the  stuffy  bedroom  atmosphere  "of  many 
books  of  the  period,  as  refreshingly  "  modest 
humor,"  and  as  having  "  touches  of  characterization 
and  serious  feeling "  which  keep  up  the  interest  to 
the  close. 

Among  the  native  lowans  who  have  distinguished 
themselves  in  literature  is  Willis  George  Emerson,  of 
Denver,  born  near  Blakesburg,  Iowa.  Mr.  Emerson 
is  author  of  "  Buell  Hampton,"  and  a  half-dozen 
other  novels,  the  latest,  "  The  Treasure  of  Hidden 
Mountain,"  also  a  hundred  or  more  sketches  and 
stories  of  travel. 

Of  the  well-known  authors  who,  during  the  im 
pressionable  years  of  their  youth  resided  for  a  time 
in  Iowa,  the  most  famous  is  "  Mark  Twain  "  (Samuel 
L.  Clemens)  who,  after  his  wander jahr,  in  the  late 
summer  of  1854,  took  the  "  Keokuk  Packet "  and 


Johnson  Brigham  341 

landed  in  Muscatine,  Iowa,  and  there  became  the 
guest  of  his  brother,  Orrin,  and  his  sister,  Jane. 
Early  in  the  spring  of  '55,  his  brother  meantime 
having  married  and  removed  to  Keokuk,  Iowa,  he 
paid  his  brother  another  visit.  Orrin  offered  him  five 
dollars  a  week  and  board  to  remain  and  help  him 
in  his  printing  office.  The  offer  was  promptly 
accepted.  The  Keokuk  episode  extended  over  a 
period  of  nearly  two  years,  "  two  vital  years,  no 
doubt,  if  all  the  bearings  could  be  known."  Here  he 
made  his  first  after-dinner  speech,  which  delighted 
his  audience.  Here  he  made  a  record  in  a  debating 
society.  Unable  to  pay  his  brother  his  wages,  Orrin 
took  him  in  as  a  partner!  A  lucky  find  of  a  fifty- 
dollar  bill  enabled  Twain  to  start  on  his  travels. 
Meanwhile  he  contracted  to  write  travel  sketches  for 
the  Keokuk  Saturday  Post.  His  first  letter  was 
dated  "  Cincinnati,  November  14,  1856."  "  It  was 
written  in  the  exaggerated  dialect  then  considered 
humorous.  The  genius  that  a  little  more  than  ten 
years  later  would  delight  the  world  flickered  feebly 
enough  at  twenty-one.  "*  A  second  letter  concluded 
the  series!  Years  later,  just  before  he  joined  the 
Holy  Land  excursion  out  of  which  grew  his  "  Inno 
cents  Abroad,"  he  visited  Keokuk  and  delivered  a 
lecture.  He  came  again  after  his  return  from  the 
trip,  on  his  triumphal  lecture  tour  across  the  continent. 

*Pai»e— Life  of  "  Mark  Twain." 


342          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

Years  later  he  and  Cable  gave  readings  in  Keokuk, 
and  while  there  he  arranged  a  permanent  residence 
for  his  mother.  In  1886,  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
he  paid  his  mother  a  visit,  renewing  old  acquaintances 
and  making  new  friends.  In  August,  1890,  he  was 
called  to  Keokuk  by  the  last  illness  of  his  mother. 
It  will  thus  be  seen  that,  next  to  his  home  in  Elmira, 
New  York,  his  "  heart's  home  "  was  Keokuk. 

Nixon  Waterman,  author,  journalist  and  lecturer, 
born  in  Newark,  Illinois,  and  long  a  resident  of  Bos 
ton,  was  for  several  years  an  attache  of  a  small  daily 
paper  in  Creston,  Iowa.  Among  his  published  works 
is  a  comedy  entitled  "  lo,  from  Iowa."  In  his 
several  books  of  verse  are  many  poems  evidently  in 
spired  by  memories  of  old  times  on  the  prairies  of 
southwestern  Iowa.  Here  is  an  echo  from  the  poet's 
lost  youth: 

"  Strange  how  Memory  will  fling  her 

Arms  about  some  scenes  we  bring  her, 
And  the  fleeting  years  but  make  them  fonder  grow ; 

Though  I  wander  far  and  sadly 

From  that  dear  old  home,  how  gladly 
I  recall  the  cherished  scenes  of  long  ago ! "  * 
William   Otis   Lillibridge,   of   Sioux  Falls,   whose 
brilliant  career  as  a  novelist  was  closed  by  death  in 
1909,  was  graduated  from  the  College  of  Dentistry, 
State  University  of  Iowa,  in  1898.     His  "  Ben  Blair  " 

*"Memories"  from  "A  Book  of  Verses,"  by  Nixon  Water 
man,  1900. 


Johnson  Brigham  343 

and    "  Where    the    Trail    Divides/'    gave    abundant 

promise. 

Randall  Parish,  though  born  in  Illinois,  was 
admitted  to  the  bar  in  Iowa,  and  for  a  time  was  en 
gaged  in  newspaper  work  in  Sioux  City.  Since  1904, 
when  he  leaped  into  fame  by  his  historical  novel, 
"  When  Wilderness  Was  King,"  volume  after  volume 
has  come  from  the  press  and  every  one  has  met 
with  quick  response  from  the  public. 

It  is  hard  to  account  for  Herbert  Quick.  Born  on 
a  farm  in  Grundy  County,  Iowa,  a  teacher  in  Mason 
City  and  elsewhere  in  Iowa,  a  lawyer  in  Sioux  City, 
mayor  of  Sioux  City  for  three  terms,  a  telephone 
manager,  editor  of  La  Follette's  Weekly,  editor  of 
Farm  and  Fireside,  democratic  politician,  at  present 
an  active  member  of  the  Federal  Farm  Loan  Board  — 
with  all  this  record  of  service,  Mr.  Quick  has  some 
how  found  time,  since  1904,  to  make  for  himself  a 
name  and  fame  as  a  magazine  contributor,  and,  too, 
as  a  novelist  who  writes  novels  so  novel  that  they 
find  thousands  of  readers!  Among  his  best  known 
books  are  "Aladdin  &  Co,"  "Virginia  of  the  Air 
Lanes,"  and  "On  Board  the  Good  Ship  Earth." 
Mr.  Quick  is  preeminently  a  twentieth  century  man  of 
affairs.  Immersed  as  he  now  is  in  farm  loans,  it 
would  not  surprise  his  friends  at  any  time  if  he  were 
to  issue  another  compelling  novel ! 

Rupert  Hughes,  eminently  successful  as  a  novelist 


344          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

and  dramatist,  though  Missouri-born,  was  for  years  a 
resident  of  Keokuk,  Iowa,  and  his  Iowa  associations 
were  so  strong  that  he  dropped  everything  to  come 
halfway  across  the  continent  that  he  might  participate 
in  the  reunion  of  Iowa  authors  in  1914.  Mr.  Hughes' 
books  are  among  the  best-selling  and  his  plays  among 
the  best-drawing.  This  popular  author  has  turned 
soldier.  He  was  an  officer  of  the  New  York  National 
Guards  in  Mexico  and  again  when  war  against  Ger 
many  was  declared  he  was  among  the  first  to  respond 
to  the  call  for  troops. 

Dr.  Edward  A.  Steiner,  of  Grinnell,  Iowa,  a 
sociologist  with  a  vision,  has  done  more  than  any 
other  man  to  bring  together  in  friendly  working 
relationship  our  native-born  and  foreign-born  Ameri 
cans.  He  has  not  only  gone  up  and  down  the  earth 
preaching  an  applied  Christianity,  but  he  has  also 
written  into  nearly  a  dozen  books,  all  of  which  have 
had  many  readers,  his  own  experiences  in  the  old 
world  and  the  new,  and  his  valuable  observations  — 
those  of  a  trained  sociologist  bent  upon  righting  the 
wrongs  of  ignorance  and  selfishness  as  he  has  found 
them  embedded  in  customs  and  laws.  The  World 
War  has  opened  a  large  field  of  usefulness  for  the 
Grinnell  preacher  of  national  and  international 
righteousness. 

Newell  Dwight  Hillis,  the  popular  Brooklyn 
preacher,  lecturer  and  author,  was  born  in  Maquoketa, 


Johnson  Brigham  345 

Iowa,  but  has  spent  most  of  his  life  outside  the  state. 

A  new  name  in  fictional  literature  is  that  of  Ethel 
Powelson  Hueston.  Mrs.  Hueston  was  reared  in  a 
family  of  eleven  children,  and  her  popular  first  book, 
"  Prudence  of  the  Parsonage,"  written  on  a  claim 
in  Idaho  while  caring  for  her  invalid  husband  —  who 
died  in  1915  —  is  the  story  of  her  own  experience  in  a 
parsonage  in  Mt.  Pleasant,  Iowa.  "  Prudence  Says 
So  "  is  a  continuation  of  the  story.  Mrs.  Hueston 
was  recently  married  to  Lieutenant  Edward  J.  Best, 
at  Golden,  Colorado. 

Margaret  Coulson  Walker  and  Ida  M.  Huntington, 
both  of  Des  Moines,  have  added  to  the  information 
and  delight  of  children  by  a  number  of  illustrated 
books.  Miss  Walker's  "Bird  Legends  and  Life/' 
and  "  Lady  Hollyhock  and  Her  Friends,"  and  Miss 
Huntington's  "  Garden  of  Heart's  Delight,"  and 
"  Peter  Pumpkin  in  Wonderland  "  are  favorites  with 
many. 

Miss  Emilie  Blackmore  Stapp,  literary  editor  of 
the  Des  Moines  Capital,  has  written  a  number  of 
popular  stories  for  children.  Her  "  Squaw  Lady," 
"  Uncle  Peter  Heathen,"  and  "  The  Trail  of  the  Go- 
Hawks  "  have  found  many  readers.  She  has  done 
more  than  write  stories.  She  has  organized  a  national 
club  called  the  "  Go-Hawks  Happy  Tribe,"  and  the 
Tribe  has  undertaken  to  raise  a  million  pennies  to 
help  buy  food  for  starving  children  in  France  and 


346          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

Belgium.  The  grand  total  of  pennies  reported  Sep 
tember,  1917,  was  255,000! 

Edna  Ferber,  of  "  Emma  McChesney  "  fame,  and 
the  author  of  a  half-dozen  clever  novels,  the  latest  of 
which  is  "  Fanny  Herself,"  was  born  in  Wisconsin, 
but  spent  much  of  her  youth  in  Ottumwa,  Iowa, 
where  her  father  was  a  successful  merchant. 

Oney  Fred  Sweet,  born  in  Hampton,  Iowa,  and 
sometime  a  journalist  in  Des  Moines,  has  made  a 
national  reputation  as  a  feature  writer  on  the  Chicago 
Tribune  and  as  a  contributor  of  verse  and  sketches 
to  the  magazines. 

Laura  L.  Hinckley,  of  Mount  Vernon,  Iowa, 
is  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  leading  magazines. 
Recent  stories  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post  and 
in  the  Woman's  Home  Companion  attest  her  ability 
in  a  difficult  field. 

A  promising  young  claimant  for  literary  honors  is 
(Lotta)  Allen  Meachem,  of  New  York,  born  in 
Washington  County,  Iowa.  Following  several  good 
stories  in  the  magazines,  comes  her  "  Belle  Jones  — 
A  Story  of  Fulfilment,"  published  by  Button. 

Eleanor  Hoyt  Brainerd,  born  in  Iowa  City,  now  a 
resident  of  New  York,  was  in  early  life  a  teacher,  but 
since  1898  has  been  on  the  staff  of  the  New  York 
Sun.  Her  "  Misdemeanors  of  Nancy,"  in  1892,  was 
the  beginning  of  a  successful  career  in  authorship. 


Johnson  Brigham  347 

Her  "  Nancy,"  "  Bettina  "  and  "  Belinda  "  are  better 
known  to  many  than  are  their  own  next  door 
neighbors. 

Men  who  have  not  learned  to  deny  the  eternal  boy 
in  their  nature  find  as  much  enjoyment  as  boys  them 
selves  in  reading  "  Widow  O'Callahan's  Boys/'  and 
everybody  enjoys  "  Maggie  McLanehan,"  both  crea 
tions  of  Gulielma  Zollinger,  of  Newton,  Iowa.  Three 
other  books,  not  so  well  known,  are  added  to  the  list 
of  Miss  Zollinger's  achievements  in  literature. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  (Eslick)  Cooper,  born  in  Homer, 
Iowa,  has  spent  most  of  her  adult  life  in  the  Orient 
and  is  an  authority  on  the  status  of  women  in 
Oriental  lands.  She  is  the  author  of  "  Sayonara," 
a  play  produced  by  Maxine  Elliot,  of  many  magazine 
articles,  and  of  a  half  dozen  books,  all  published  since 
1910.  Her  books  are  vivid  pictures  of  life  in  China, 
Egypt,  Turkey  and  Japan. 

Among  the  most  prominent  magazine  writers  and 
journalists  of  the  period  is  Judson  Welliver.  He 
several  years  ago  graduated  from  Iowa  journalism  to 
the  larger  field,  the  national  capital,  and  has  latterly 
become  one  of  the  regular  contributors  to  Munsey's, 
and  a  frequent  contributor  to  other  periodicals. 

Another  prominent  magazine  writer  is  Joe  Mitchell 
Chappie,  early  in  life  editor  of  a  La  Porte,  Iowa, 
weekly.  Mr.  Chappie  is  the  founder,  publisher  and 
editor  of  the  National  Magazine,  Boston,  and  the 


348          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

author  of  "  Boss  Bart,"  a  novel,  and  editor  of  a 
popular  collection  of  verse. 

One  of  the  youngest  magazine  writers  forging  to 
the  front  is  Horace  M.  Towner,  Jr.,  of  Corning, 
Iowa,  son  of  Congressman  Towner.  A  long  list 
might  be  made  of  his  recent  contributions  to  the  lead 
ing  magazines. 

A  group  of  new  writers,  some  of  them  lowans, 
have  happily  been  given  a  medium  for  reaching  the 
public  through  the  new  Midland,  of  Iowa  City.  Mr. 
Frederick,  the  editor,  has  in  the  main  evinced  excel 
lent  judgment  in  the  selection  of  stories,  sketches  and 
verse,  and  has  won  commendation  from  our  severest 
Eastern  critics.  The  new  Midland  has,  doubtless, 
started  not  a  few  middle-western  authors  on  their 
way  to  the  front  in  the  field  of  literature. 

The  World  War  has  already  added  the  names  of 
several  lowans  to  the  literature  of  the  great  struggle. 
The  best  known  is  James  Norman  Hall,  of  Colfax, 
Iowa,  whose  "  Kitchener's  Mob  "  and  articles  in  the 
Atlantic  have  added  greatly  to  popular  knowledge  of 
conditions  at  the  front.  Already  twice  wounded,  the 
first  time  in  the  trenches;  the  latest  —  may  it  be  the 
last !  —  in  the  air,  this  brave  young  American  can 
well  say  with  Virgil,  "  all  of  which  I  saw  and  part 
of  which  I  was."  After  his  discharge  from  the 
English  army,  Mr.  Hall  went  abroad  commissioned 
to  do  literary  work  for  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Com- 


Johnson  Brigham  349 

pany;  but  his  zeal  for  the  cause  of  the  Allies,  com 
bined  possibly  with  a  young  man's  love  of  adventure, 
led  him  to  re-enter  the  service,  this  time  in  the 
Aviation  Corps.  He  is  now  (in  September,  1917) 
slowly  recovering  from  a  shot  which  penetrated  his 
left  lung. 

The  Gleasons,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Gleason,  of 
Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa,  and  of  New  York  City,  have 
both  won  honors  in  the  Red  Cross  work  in  Belgium 
and  incidentally  have  made  valuable  contributions  to 
the  "  human  interest "  story  of  the  World  War. 
Mrs.  Helen  Hayes  Gleason  was  the  first  American 
woman  knighted  by  King  Albert  for  meritorious 
service  at  the  front.  Mr.  Gleason  in  his  "  Young 
Hilda  at  the  Wars  "  begins  his  charming  story  of 
Hilda  with  this  tribute  to  the  state  in  which  his  wife 
first  saw  the  light: 

"  She  was  an  American  girl  from  the  very  pros 
perous  State  of  Iowa,  which  if  not  as  yet  the  mother 
of  presidents,  is  at  least  the  parent  of  many  exuberant 
and  useful  persons.  Will  power  is  grown  out  yonder 
as  one  of  the  crops." 

"  Golden  Lads,"  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gleason,  is  a 
vivid  recital  of  experiences  with  the  Hector  Munro 
Ambulance  Corps  at  the  front  in  Belgium. 

Though  the  evaluations  in  this  review  are  confined 
chiefly  to  belles  lettres,  it  would  not  be  fair  to  the 
reader  to  omit  the  state's  large  indebtedness  to  Dr. 


350         Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

B.  F.  Shambaugh  and  his  scholarly  associates  of  the 
State  Historical  Society,  of  Iowa  City,  for  their  many 
valuable  contributions  to  the  general,  social  and 
economic  history  of  Iowa;  to  Dr.  Jesse  Macy,  of 
Grinnell,  for  his  valuable  studies  in  the  science  of 
government;  to  the  late  Samuel  Calvin,  also  to  Dr. 
Thomas  H.  McBride,  of  the  State  University,  Dr. 
Louis  H.  Pammel,  of  the  State  College,  and  Dr. 
Charles  Keyes,  of  Des  Moines,  for  their  contributions 
to  science;  to  Dr.  Charles  H.  Weller,  of  the  State 
University,  for  his  "  Athens  and  Its  Monuments," 
and  other  works  throwing  light  upon  an  ancient 
civilization;  to  George  E.  Roberts,  of  New  York,  a 
native  lowan,  for  his  clear  elucidation  of  national  and 
world  problems;  to  the  late  Judges  Kinne,  Deemer 
and  MacLean,  and  other  jurists  for  standard  works 
on  jurisprudence;  to  Carl  Snyder,  Woods  Hutchin- 
son  and  a  host  of  other  lowans  who  are  contributing 
to  the  current  literature  of  our  time. 

This  review,  incomplete  at  best,  would  be  unfair  to 
the  president  of  the  Iowa  Press  and  Authors  Club 
were  it  to  conclude  without  mention  of  the  inspira 
tion  of  her  leadership.  Mrs.  Alice  Wilson  Weitz 
began  life  as  a  journalist  at  the  Iowa  State  Capital. 
In  the  course  of  her  busy  and  successful  later  career 
as  wife,  mother  and  public-spirited  citizen,  she  has 
somehow  found  time  to  write  on  literary  and  timely 
themes.  Her  latest  contribution  to  the  state  of  her 


Johnson  Brigham  351 

birth  is  a  scenario  entitled  "  The  Wild  Rose  of  Iowa  " 
which  was  to  have  been  produced  on  the  screen  in  all 
the  cities  of  the  state;  but,  unfortunately,  the  film, 
prepared  with  great  labor  and  expense,  and  with  the 
aid  of  some  of  the  best  dramatic  talent  in  Iowa,  was 
destroyed  or  lost  on  the  way  from  Chicago  to  Des 
Moines.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  may  soon  be 
reproduced,  for  Mrs.  Weitz'  scenario  admirably  pre 
sented  in  symbol  the  whole  story  of  Iowa's  wonderful 
development  from  savagery  to  twentieth-century 
civilization. 

A  list  of  Iowa  State  University  publications  —  a 
pamphlet  of  forty-one  pages  —  includes  hundreds  of 
monographs,  dissertations,  etc.,  covering  a  wide  range 
of  original  research. 

It  must  have  become  evident  from  this  incom 
plete  review  that  Iowa  is  literarily,  to  say  the  least,  no 
longer  inarticulate.  It  is  equally  apparent,  to  those 
who  really  know  their  Iowa,  that,  far  from  being  a 
dead  level  of  uninteresting  prosperity,  our  state  is 
rich  in  suggestive  literary  material,  ready  and  waiting 
for  the  authors  of  the  future.  Topographically,  Iowa 
abounds  in  surprises.  In  the  midst  of  her  empire  of 
rich  rolling  prairie  are  lakes  and  rivers,  rugged  cliffs 
and  wooded  hills,  villages  and  cities  set  upon  hills 
overlooking  beautiful  valleys  through  which  streams 
wind  their  way  seaward,  her  east  and  west  borders 
defended  by  castellated  rocks  overlooking  our  two 


352          Iowa  As  a  Literary  Field 

great  rivers.  Ethnologically,  within  these  borders 
are  communities  of  blanket  Indians  still  living  in 
wigwams,  surrounded  by  communities  in  which  are 
practiced  all  the  arts  of  an  advanced  civilization. 
Sociologically,  side  by  side  with  her  native-born  and 
native-bred  citizens,  are  communities  of  Christian 
Socialists,  also  remnants  of  a  French  experiment  in 
Communism,  Quakers,  Mennonites,  anti-polygamous 
Mormons,  and  whole  regions  in  which  emigrants  from 
Holland,  Germany  and  Scandinavia  are  slowly  and 
surely  acquiring  American  habits  of  thought  and  life. 
Historically  speaking,  we  have  the  early  and  late 
pioneer  period  with  its  rapid  adjustment  to  new  con 
ditions,  with  its  multiform  perils  developing  latent 
heroism,  its  opportunities  for  character-building  and 
for  public  service.  Later  the  heroic  period,  during 
which  a  peace-loving  people  quit  the  plow,  the  work 
shop,  the  country  store,  the  office  and  even  the  pulpit, 
to  rally  to  the  defence  of  the  Union.  Then,  the 
reconstruction  and  the  new-construction  period,  in 
which  Iowa  prospered  under  the  leadership  of  men  — 
men  who  knew  their  duties  as  well  as  their  rights, 
men  who  recognized,  and  insisted  upon  recognition 
of,  that  "  sovereign  law,  the  state's  collected  will." 
And  now,  an  epoch  of  reviving  patriotism  coupled 
with  a  world-embracing  passion  for  democracy,  in 
which  the  youths  and  young  men  of  the  state  are 
consecrating  their  strength,  their  talents  and  their 
lives  to  a  great  cause. 


Y.O02I38 


M      913 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


